


victory is in my veins (oh ye of so little faith)

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark!Dany, F/M, Happy Ending, Political Intrigue, Political!Jon, Season 8 Fix It, UST, Will add more tags as I go, as evidenced by this fic, dw d&d i can take it from here, jonerice, mentions of previous trauma, stark bonding, stark pack - Freeform, the season we deserved, this theory can be pried from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-03-05 09:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 136,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: “Jon,” Sansa says quietly, her hands twisting together in front of her. “Tell me the truth. Do you love her?”He starts, eyes widening. “Love her?”That’s all the confirmation she needs, but Jon rushes onward, stepping closer to her, hands outstretched and voice nervous, reassuring, as if he were a husband swearing to his wife that he loves only her.“Sansa, no, no, gods, after this, I hope I never have to see her again.”//The Season 8 we deserved. (and that the characters deserved) (yeah i'll die mad about s8, sue me)





	1. Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> dw fam, I'm gonna fix this shitshow. I'm the princess that was promised. 
> 
> One chap per ep, plus an epilogue cuz i'm a thirsty hoe that needs jonsa loving (ps dear d&d, imma write the final season in 6 eps and 20-30k words too and i ain't gonna fuck up anyone's characterisations to do it you dumb cunts) 
> 
> also until i know how it ends (specifically jon's arc ngl) i'm refusing to rewatch s8 on the basis that the council made some stupid ass decisions and i've elected to ignore them. read: not gonna watch something that is making me feel such soul-crushing disappointment at the moment, so i'm going off memory/reading the wikipedia synopsis for this. 
> 
> IN SAYING THAT AND THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART: i have kept some things the same, quite a few things actually, especially in the beginning, so please bear in mind that i'm not putting in scenes that i've kept from the show. I did change the timeline a little, but i've tried to make it obvious enough what i've kept and what i've changed. please, please, if you don't understand, leave me a comment so i know for the future chaps what i can and can't skip over. 
> 
> mainly jon and sansa POV bc they're pretty much the only reason i still watch this fucking show (and arya but they did her good this season imo) but i'll add other POVs when needed (which ain't much lmao) 
> 
> i thank you muchly if you read all of that, and without further ado, i present to you Episode 1: The Better Version 
> 
> unbeta'd

Jon

 

Jon wonders what it was like for Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister when they rode in to Winterfell all those years ago.

Oh, some things must be similar; the townsfolk lining the streets to stare up them, the procession that surely made them feel grand. He wonders what Cersei felt, riding alongside a man who she didn’t love and who didn’t love her in return, riding in to the home of the woman who her husband truly loved. He wonders what Robert felt, coming to Winterfell, fearing a sinister plot against him, visiting his Father, coming to his love’s homeplace.

They could not have felt the icy fear that Jon does. There were no dragons overhead; they did not look down at the townsfolk, their people, and think that if they didn’t hold everything together then these people might die. They didn’t walk through the gates, catching a glimpse of their family, and fear that their partner might kill them if they didn’t say the right things.

No, Jon can’t know how it felt to be Robert and Cersei then, because no matter how he and Daenerys might be walking in their footsteps, they aren’t the same.

This is so much worse.

As they come through the gates, Jon first catches glimpse of red hair; his throat closes immediately. Oh gods, what’s he going to say to her? How will he explain this? How can he possibly convey to her right now that she needs to placate Daenerys?

He’d seen Daenerys’ look as the people hadn’t welcomed her; he’d tried to pacify her displeasure by saying he’d warned her, and maybe he could have hoped that that would be enough. But then he’d seen her smile as her dragons flew overhead, as the people cowered in fear, and Jon’s heart has been lodged in his throat since then.

Jon has no idea what to say to Sansa, so he goes to Bran first.

He presses a fierce kiss against Bran’s head. Gods, his baby brother, he’d done this the last time he saw him, when he was laid in bed, when Jon wasn’t sure he would wake, and thank gods Bran lived when Jon couldn’t save Rickon -

“You’re a man grown now,” Jon says roughly, his Northern brogue stronger in his emotion.

“Almost,” Bran says, voice eerie and flat.

Jon opens his mouth to say something else, but he finds himself so overwhelming confused at what Bran just said, at the flat look on his face, that he has absolutely no reply.

Red catches his eye again and all thought flees him as he moves to take Sansa in his arms.

She’s in his arms, she’s safe, he has her now, he’s going to protect her, gods he’s so fucking glad to see her again, he thought he might never get the chance. Oh seven hells she feels so soft, she smells so sweet, he’s going to protect her, he loves her, he _loves loves loves –_

She slips from his grip before he’s even managed to put his thoughts back together, before he’d been able to whisper in her ear how much he missed her, how he should have listened, how she just needs to please Daenerys right now and he’ll tell her what she needs to know later.

But she’s not looking at him. Her eyes are fixed over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to guess at what she’s looking at.

He should have deferred to Daenerys, he realizes belatedly. He should have helped her down, presented her first. It’s too late now.

“Queen Daenerys, I present to you my sister,” – he stumbles over the word, _sister_ bitter in his mouth as the reminder that it is – “Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

Daenerys smiles, a beautiful, serene smile that Jon wishes he truly loved - maybe it could have made all this easier, maybe if he loved her he could forget about Sansa, if he loved her he might find it easier to appease her, to lie with her – then places her hand against his bicep as she says, “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, My Lady. As are you.”

Had he said Sansa was beautiful? No, he decidedly had _not._ He’s not sure he’s ever even uttered Sansa’s name in her presence.

Sansa’s eyes slowly flick from where she’d been looking at Daenerys’ hand on him and down to Daenerys’ feet, then slide up her body as if she’s assessing her; no, not if, Jon knows that that’s what she’s doing, and he steps slightly closer to Sansa before he can stop himself, ready to step in if need be.

But Sansa just takes a breath, then dips into a curtsey. The household follows, and Jon has to bite his lip to stop himself from breathing a sigh of relief.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace,” Sansa says, demure to anyone else perhaps, but Jon knows that she’s angry. That she’s _furious._

Daenerys smiles smugly. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. I –“

“We don’t have time for this!”

Jon blinks in shock as he looks down to his younger brother, who is glaring up at Daenerys. Sansa seems surprised as well, and Daenerys is completely taken aback.

“Bran,” Jon hastens to interject, though it’s no use.

“The Wall has fallen,” Bran says anyway, and Jon’s heart stops. _Fallen_? What does that – “And the Night King has added Viserion to his ranks.”

“Bran,” Sansa says, hastily, disapprovingly. “My apologies, You Grace, let me escort you inside.”

Daenerys ignores Sansa, fury abrupt on her face as she stares down at Bran. Jon feels the distinct need to step between them, but his heart thuds in his chest as he glances at Sansa. She’d known this to be true, Jon decides as he looks at her. She’s trying to manage collateral, but she’s not concerned by the news.

“What do you mean added Viserion to his ranks?” Daenerys demanded.

Bran turns his steely gaze to Jon, and Daenerys’ eyes follow.

“He can raise the dead with the wave of a hand,” Jon mutters, shoulders pinching together. “I’ve seen giants and bears and wolves, but I never thought . . .”

“So it’s not enough that I lost my child,” Daenerys says, her eyes locked on his, “but now he’s been added to your enemy’s ranks?”

Your enemy’s. Your enemy’s. _Your_ enemy’s.

“I didn’t think . . .” But Jon has nothing else to say.

Sansa saves him, as she always does.

“I extend my sincerest condolences, Your Grace,” Sansa says politely, forlornly, as if she actually cares. “And my apologies to the circumstances under which you received that information.” Here Sansa glares at Bran, then she gives Daenerys another soft smile. “I’ve had the most luxurious guest chambers prepared for you, and I’ve just had a maid draw you a bath. Please, let me escort you to your chambers.”

Daenerys gives Sansa a tight smile, but lets herself be led away.

Jon watches them go, unable to take his eyes from them even as Davos comes to stand beside him.

“That went well,” Davos says cautiously.

From here, he can see the tense line of both Daenerys and Sansa’s backs.

“No,” Jon sighs heavily, “it didn’t.”

 

Sansa

 

“I apologise again, Your Grace, as to the way Bran informed you of that news.”

Daenerys is walking tensely beside her, and Sansa is extremely aware of how tenuous the situation is. Jon bent the knee for a reason, Sansa reminds herself fiercely, no matter how Daenerys’ possessive hand on his arm is burned into her eyes. She _knows_ it must have been for a reason.

Sansa glances down to the beautiful woman beside her, her gorgeous fur coat, her beautiful white hair braided to perfection, her big eyes and pink lips and cute smile. The reason isn’t Daenerys, Sansa tells herself, pushing down panic, it isn’t because he loves her, it can’t be.

Daenerys doesn’t reply to Sansa’s offer.

“I’ve had a feast organized for this evening,” Sansa tries again.

“Missandei,” Daenerys says, a cool anger in her voice. A woman in the following party hurries to walk alongside Daenerys as the would-be Queen starts to converse in another language.

Sansa turns her face to hide the twitch in her eye she can’t push down, but otherwise lets the insult slide off her shoulders.

Daenerys and the other woman, Missandei, a name and face Sansa commits to memory, fall behind slightly to continue talking, and another man with dark skin and dressed in armour starts to talk quietly as well.

Tyrion hurries to her side, and Sansa see’s Varys sidle up behind them, too, though he makes himself small and doesn’t address Sansa. She doesn’t care; she knows this mans type, and she knows Tyrion. These are games she not only knows how to play, but that she knows how to beat them at.

Littlefinger’s burnt body is testament to that.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion says, voice overly cheerful, obviously trying to make up for the fact that his Queen had insulted her so. “You have no idea how glad I was when I heard that you’d found your way home.”

“You make it sound like it was an easy feat,” Sansa says, before she can help herself.

Tyrion hesitates, though he doesn’t seem offended.

Be calm, Sansa reminds herself. You know how to play this game.

“I heard brief rumours about the Boltons,” Tyrion says cautiously. “Of their cruelty against the North. I must admit, I’d hoped you to be spared from it, but from the way Jon acted when I brought up our marriage . . .”

Sansa glances down at him, alarmed, but he’s staring ahead forlornly.

“Well, I imagine you weren’t.”

Sansa knows her voice is tight, though she tries to keep any anger from it when she says, “Whatever you’ve imagined, my Lord, I can assure you that I went through worse.”

Tyrion falls into silence again.

Sansa takes the opportunity. “And you?” she asks. “How did my dear Lannister husband find himself a new Queen in Essos?”

Tyrion launches into the tale with delight, obviously keen to change the topic from Sansa’s own misfortunes and on to his own.

“I was a slave for but a day, Lady Sansa, when I knew that it was a terrible fate to befall a person,” he’s saying.

Sansa filters out what isn’t important.

“So when Queen Daenerys was freeing the slaves I was extremely invested in the endeavor. . . of course we experienced push-back . . . but our merciful Queen decided to stay in Slaver’s Bay instead of sail to Westeros in order to abolish slavery . . . of course, she was kidnapped before we could finish our work . . . and then she burnt the Khals to free the Khaleesi’s, and she amassed another army . . . and that’s how we find ourselves here.”

By the time Tyrion has finished his story, Sansa has shown everyone in the royal party to their rooms. Daenerys had ignored her entirely as she’d gone into her chambers alone, her solider guarding the door – Sansa takes a slight to that, too – while Missandei had given her a polite smile as she’d gone into her own chambers, and Varys had given her respectful nod after she’d told him that there would be a feast in the evening, preceded by a formal discussion in which Sansa would present Daenerys to the Lords.

Tyrion lets each interruption happen, then picks up his story back up where it left as Sansa encourages him.

When they reach his door, Tyrion smiles in embarrassment. “We already passed this door, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa gives him an indulgent smile. “I didn’t want to interrupt you,” she says sweetly. “It was a very entertaining story.”

Tyrion chuckles. “You know me,” he says, giving her shrug, “You get me talking about myself and I’ll tell you more than you wanted you to know.”

Tyrion gives her a polite bow, and she curtsies in return, and they each give each other knowing smiles as they do so as if they’re sharing an old joke.

It makes her feel sick to her stomach.

Tyrion closes the door, giving her one last smile, and as soon as the door locks in place she rolls her eyes.

 _Oh Tyrion,_ she thinks with amusement, _I used to think you were the cleverest man alive._

 

Jon

 

By the time Sansa announces an end to the discussion and orders the food to be served, Jon’s nerves are completely shot.

Oh, it had started well enough. Sansa had introduced Daenerys to the crowd, who had tittered but not said anything; they’d ordered Ned Umber to Last Hearth; and it had devolved from there. Lyanna’s outburst was expected though no less terrifying, and Sansa’s expectant look at him as if to say ‘ _sorry, you created this problem, I’m going to let you fix it’_ was enough to make him shrink in his chair; Tyrion’s hurried placation with the news of the the Lannister army had enraged Sansa enough that she spoken derisively of Daenerys’ army and dragons, and then Daenerys, oh gods, Daenerys . . .

_Whatever they want._

Those three words are enough to have him out of his chair and in front of the table, deflecting the entire conversation to the breach in the Wall and how they all need to work together to fortify Winterfell.

No one is mollified, though they’re not shouting, either, and Winterfell still stands and Sansa is still alive so it’s not a great situation but it’s not expressly _bad_ , either.

Sansa finally takes pity on him and stands to announce dinner. Serving maids scurry into the Hall as the Lord’s take their seats, and Jon drags his feet as he walks around the table to take a seat between Daenerys and Sansa.

The High Table sits in silence as the Hall rumbles as they eat, and it’s not until Jon is halfway through his stew that Sansa says to him, “And you believe that Cersei’s forces are coming?”

Jon takes another spoonful of his stew to avoid answering, because truthfully he doesn’t know what to believe.

“She swore an oath,” Daenerys says, voice hard. “If Cersei plans to break that oath, then you need not worry yourself with how I choose to punish her.”

Jon flinches.

“But is she _coming_?” Sansa repeats, voice hard.

Tyrion leans over to say down the table, “I spoke with her myself,” he says. “She’s coming.”

Sansa nods, then settles back in her chair.

She’s not convinced, Jon thinks numbly. Before he’d fought Ramsay, before he had gone to Dragonstone, Jon would have said that Sansa is probably just worried because she likes to plan, likes to worry. But she’s always right, Jon thinks, Arya’s words earlier today bouncing in his head. _She’s the smartest person I know._

If Sansa isn’t convinced, Jon isn’t either.

 

Sansa

 

There’s a single rap on her office door before it’s pushed open.

Sansa isn’t concerned. Ghost’s head perks, and Sansa knows its Jon.

Sure enough, Jon slips through the door and closes it quickly behind him.

Ghost pads over to Jon.

“Hey, boy,” Jon says gently, dropping to one knee and running his hand over his head. “I missed you.”

Ghost presses his head against Jon’s and licks up his cheek. Jon chuckles and pushes his Direwolf’s head away from him.

“I was wondering where he’d got to,” Jon says to her, standing again.

“He’s been hunting,” Sansa says shortly. “He was here in my office when I got back.”

Jon looks at her warily. “What’s wrong?”

Sansa narrows her eyes and instead of telling him all of things she’s been angry about today, she holds up the scroll that’s making her angry _currently_. “Lord Glover extends his apologies and says he’s keeping his men in Deepwood Motte.”

Jon throws his gloves on the table in irritation. “He also said he’d pledge his forces to House Stark for the next thousand years.”

Sansa’s chair scraps as she stands, the anger that she has tried so hard to suppress all day now no longer able to be pushed down.

“He pledged his forces to _King Jon,”_ Sansa corrects, her tone venomous. Jon shrinks under her sharp accusation, but Sansa has spent the day being made to feel powerless in her own home, and she has no time to be made to feel like that by Jon. “And you aren’t a King, are you Jon? Like Lyanna said today. So what are you? Why _should_ they come?”

Jon steps towards her, brows pulling together in anger. “Why should they come?” he repeats. She can see the fury she has brought out in him. Good. She needs this. She needs to scream at him, she needs him to _know_ what he’s done. “You know why they should come.”

“He’s to take your word for it, then?” Sansa spits. “We’re all just supposed to believe you? I heard you took a wight before the Southroners, but you couldn’t spare us the same courtesy?”

Jon’s mouth has dropped open, aghast. “You’ve never expressed this disbelief before!”

Sansa scoffs. “I hardly know what to believe now.”

Jon pauses suddenly, his mouth snapping shut. He takes a deep breath, then steps towards her again. “Then believe _me_ ,” he implores. “We need her.”

Anger roils in her gut, hot and fierce, and Sansa can feel her jaw trembling, can feel her fingers twitching, and knows that she’s so angry because _he_ knows why she’s so angry – and gods, it’s not about the stupid wights, it’s not about Jon not proving it to them, it’s because he gave away the North like it meant nothing, no matter that he says it was the greatest honour of his life to be crowned – and so what she says next she says without thought, she says to hurt.

“Does the North need her?” Sansa challenges. “Or do _you_?”

Jon says nothing, face dropped in incredulity, and Sansa waits several heart-wrenching seconds for him to deny her accusation, but he doesn’t.

He manages to stutter out an incomplete, “Dragons . . .” and it only makes her angrier.

“I heard about your stint on them today,” Sansa says scornfully. “Once you fuck the Mother of Dragons you get to ride her children, is it?”

“ _Sansa_!” Jon cries desperately.

Vaguely, Sansa thinks she might have gone too far. But Jon hasn’t denied anything yet, hasn’t told her what she she so desperately wished were true, that he’d done it all for a reason, for the North, but he doesn’t, he just keeps staring at her.

“Do you know what _I_ was doing today?”

Still, he says nothing.

“Tyrion told me all about her stint ruling in Essos,” Sansa spits derisively. “She took away the slaves and I applaud that, I really do. But she didn’t replace the economy, and she offered no remuneration and even we did that in the North, and don’t you say a word of the fact that she might not have known because she had Jorah Mormont and Tyrion there to guide her. And then – oh then she was kidnapped Jon, and _Tyrion_ was the one who brought peace, she wasn’t even there! While Tyrion was attempting to bring order back – which did fail, might I say – _she_ was burning a Dothraki temple and convincing them to fight beside her by killing their Khals and convincing their Khalasars to come to Westeros on the promise of burning cities to the ground.”

“She –“

“I swear to the Old Gods and the New, Jon, that if you’re about to say she’ll be a good Queen then I will kick you out of Winterfell myself.”

Jon blinks sluggishly at her, and then his face crumples.

“Right, then,” he says, and there’s no anger there, none of the bite she wanted, there’s no exasperation, there’s . . . nothing. His voice is flat, empty. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it.”

Jon leaves the room, slowly, steps heavy; not like he wants her to tell him to stay, but like he doesn’t understand what just happened.

The door creaks as he pulls is open, and suddenly Sansa is breathing harshly, she doesn’t understand what just happened either, why is he _leaving_ -

“Ghost, to me,” Jon says quietly.

Ghost stays by her side.

Jon’s eyes squeeze shut, face screwed in pain, his head nodding slowly, resignedly.

“Alright,” he whispers. “Alright.”

Then he disappears from the door.

Sansa has started to cry before the door even clicks in to place.

 

Jon

 

Jon stares miserably down at his bowl of now-cold porridge, poking it with his spoon, head in hand.

Daenerys sits by his side, her bowl untouched. Neither of their advisors are around, though Grey Worm still stands resolutely behind Daenerys; that no one is here is unsurprising, considering how late in the day it is.

Jon’s been sat here for an hour, waiting to see if Sansa will come down. She hadn’t, and when he’d asked a serving maid what time Sansa usually would break her fast, the woman had informed him that the Lady Sansa has already taken her meal in her chambers before the sun rose, as usual.

Jon had slumped back in his seat and finally started to eat his own food when Daenerys had breezed in.

He’d been surprised, at first, to learn that Daenerys not only rose late but that she then didn’t start her daily activities until even later. It had jarred him, so unlike he and Sansa’s own routine, or unlike his Father’s and Lady Catelyn’s, but he’s become used to it, now.

Daenerys arrived this morning later than almost all, with the Hall near on empty as the smallfolk and Lords alike all worked to prepare the castle for the war.

He knows he should be out there, too, but Sansa will pick up the slack. She always does, Jon thinks unhappily, swirling his porridge again, she has absolutely no need for him.

“I must say,” Daenerys states from beside him, “I’m mildly surprised you’re still brooding even now you’re home.”

Jon turns to her, frowning slightly. He isn’t _brooding,_ no matter what anyone says.

“I thought perhaps you were surly because you were south, or maybe because of me,” she admits, her brow pinched at the thought, but then she smiles softly at him. “But now I see it isn’t me at all, it’s just your disposition.”

Jon turns back to his porridge. He doesn’t know what to say. South it _had_ been because of her. Here, North? It’s still because of her.

He’s too emotionally spent right now, he’s too tired from a lack of sleep to be able to pretend properly, to lie properly. Let her think it’s just his disposition, he thinks darkly.

He feels her hand on his arm, and he has to go to concerted effort to not shake it off.

“I’d thought you might join me last night,” she says quietly. “I waited for you, but . . .”

Had they agreed to meet last night? he wonders numbly. Had he forgotten in his anguish? No, he remembers, he’d left the feast early specifically so she would have no chance to ask him to join her.

Well, that and to see . . .

He closes his eyes, pushing his argument with Sansa away as quickly as it rises, and says, “Sorry, I didn’t realize . . .”

Daenerys chuckles and smiles at him indulgently. “My handsome Northman,” she teases, squeezing his arm. Jon thinks he might be about to throw up the meager porridge he’d just eaten. “Subtly isn’t your forte, is it?”

Jon shrugs, and tries to return her smile. Oh, if only she knew.

“Well, what did you do with your evening, then?” she asks lightly, finally picking up her spoon.

They’re alone in the hall, now, and Daenerys moves her chair closer to his. He lets her, even dropping his left arm from the table and to the armrest so his bicep isn’t between them.

“I just . . . went back to my room,” he says, shrugging, finally giving up on the pretense of eating.

His spoon clatters back into his bowl. Daenerys eyes it, finally realizing something is wrong.

Jon clenches the fingers on his right hand, then lets them go. He needs to let go of his fight with Sansa, he needs to be in the here, the now, he needs to pretend to be in love with Daenerys and be devoted to her, otherwise this will all go to shit very quickly.

Nothing else matters right now, he repeats to him self. Nothing except appeasing her.

“And you?” he asks. “Did you spend much longer at the feast?”

Daenerys’ eyes linger on his bowl for a moment more, so he leans back completely in his chair and lets the hand she’d had on his arm slide down she he can grab it with his own.

His gloves are still on, he realizes belatedly.

“No, I didn’t,” she replies, then gives him a coy smile, “I’d figured because you’d left so early that you might want me to join you.”

He freezes, unsure what to say.

“That’s alright,” she says, before he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “as I said, subtly isn’t your strong suit. Would you join me tonight, Jon?”

He doesn’t want to. He really, really _doesn’t_ want to. But he’s done it before. He can go to bed with her again. He ignores the instinct that makes him recoil at the thought of lying with her in his home, with Sansa within the same walls.

“If I don’t finish with my duties too late,” he says humbly, bowing his head slightly.

Daenerys nods in satisfaction. “There something else I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, and all warmth leaves her voice.

“It’s about your sister.”

Jon immediately leans over to rest his other hand over her wrist, tracing his fingers up her arm.

“Don’t worry about her,” he says softly, as if he’s talking about an annoying sibling who’s being petty. “She’ll come around.”

Jon can’t bring himself to say her name.

“I don’t need her to like me,” Daenerys warns, her eyes narrowed, “but if she can’t respect me . . .”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but Jon doesn’t need her to. He gets the message, loud and clear. He’s not doing enough to soothe Daenerys. He’ll have to go to her tonight. He can’t afford to hope that Daenerys will let this go; Sansa may be only one sassy comment away from execution.

The door to the Hall creaks open.

Daenerys brightens as she sees who’s entered, but Jon’s gaze lingers on her a few moments longer. She looks so young like this, a smile on her face, her hair pulled back beautifully.

But even if he tries, he can’t forget the threat that just dropped from her mouth.

Ser Jorah stops before them, an uncomfortable smile on his face.

“Your Grace,” he says, “I found him. He’s in the library. Shall I take you now?”

Daenerys smiles and nods, then stands, her porridge forgotten. “Of course,” she says eagerly, “I want to meet the man who saved you immediately.”

She turns to him. He gives her a smile, one he hopes isn’t stiff, and the softening of her features tells him that he’s succeeded.

“I’ll see you later?”

He nods. “I was going to the crypts anyway.”

Daenerys walks around the table, then takes Jorah’s arm in hers. She pauses, then turns back to him, face blank.

“Remember what I said about your sister.”

Jon clenches his jaw as she turns away from him.

“The Lady Sansa, Your Grace?” Jon hears Jorah ask her as they walk away.

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” Daenerys dismisses. “I can handle her.”

The door shuts behind them. Immediately, Jon’s chair scraps as he pushes it from the table, head in hands, his breath coming ragged. He doesn’t know how to _do_ this, Sansa won’t talk to him, Bran is – _something,_ Arya, gods, he doesn’t even know how to talk to her, he tried to find some middle ground on the topic of Sansa with her yesterday but she’d shut him down before they could properly talk, and now he’s fucking it all up, he’s putting them in even more danger he just _knows_ \- . . .

“Your Grace?” A timid voice pipes up from beside him.

Jon jumps, his chair scraping further from the table as his legs tense.

It’s just a serving girl in front of him.

Jon holds his breath for a moment, then lets it go, letting his face slide into an unreadable mask.

“Would you like me to get you a fresh bowl, Your Grace?” she asks shyly.

He blinks at her.

“Of porridge, Your Grace,” she clarifies, head bowed.

“Oh. No, no, it’s fine.”

She nods, then collects Daenerys’ bowl.

“You can take mine, too,” he says.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jon doesn’t have it in him to correct the title.

She piles his bowl onto Daenerys’.

With that symbolism in mind, he says, “I haven’t seen Littlefinger around.”

“Littlefinger?” the serving girl asks, confused.

“Petyr Baelish,” he clarifies. He’s been wondering since he entered the courtyard yesterday, and he’d meant to ask Sansa last night but then they’d . . .

“ _Oh,_ ” the girl says, like it’s some big secret. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” he demands, eyes narrowing.

“Lady Sansa had him executed,” she whispers.

“ _Executed_?” he asks, his eyes widening in shock. “ _Why_?”

“I wasn’t here, Your Grace,” she says, bowing her head. “I’m not sure.”

“And the Knights of the Vale stayed?” Jon presses.

“I –“ The girl flounders. “I suppose so, Your Grace.”

She obviously has no more answers. He waves her away, and she scurries through the door to the kitchen, bowls in hand.

Jon really needs to go to the crypts.

 

The crypts are dark and dank, exactly how he remembers. He lights the torches as he goes, bathing the corridors in orange light.

The women and children could come down here, he thinks dully.

Jon stops in front of his Father’s statue. He’d come down here before he’d left, it feels right to come here now he’s back.

Last time, he’d carried but one sin with him; a shameful sin, a sin so dark and heavy that he’d felt suffocated by it down here, with her Father, _their_ Father watching him. He’d imagined Ned’s face, the downturn of utter disappointment in his eyes if he’d been alive to learn to truth of Jon’s twisted feelings for Sansa.

Jon need not even look at Lady Catelyn’s statue to hear her voice; _I knew all along the kind of perversions you would hold. You would take my son’s true place as King, and you would shame my daughter with your sickness._

This time, though, there is so much more weight on his shoulders. He almost scoffs at the thought. If someone had said to him before he left that he would hold more shame than just being in love with his sister when he returned, he would have laughed in their face.

Now, though, now he carries not only his longing for Sansa, but the lies he’d given Daenerys, the manipulation he’d used that had ended with them in bed together; he carries the shame of giving away the North, no matter the truth under which he’d done so.

There’s a light scuffle from down the corridor, then the sound of someone falling on their face. Jon huffs and goes to see who it is.

“ _Sam_?” Jon asks, going to his friend immediately. He helps him up, then brings him in for a fierce hug.

“What happened to the Citadel?” Jon asks on a laugh, clapping the man on his back.

Sam pulls back. For the first time, Jon realizes something is wrong. There are tears on Sam’s face, and Jon can see his eyes are red even in this dim light.

“Sam?” Jon asks urgently. “What’s wrong? Is it Little Sam? Gilly?”

“No they – they’re, they’re fine.”

“What’s happened, then?” Jon asks.

“It’s – my brother and father, they fought against Daenerys on the battlefield . . .”

Oh. Oh, _gods,_ seven hells, Jon immediately feels sick to his stomach. She’d gone to the Reach on her fucking dragon . . .

“They fell?” Jon whispers, voice too choked to rise any more.

“ _No,_ ” Sam says, bitterly, “She executed them. For not bending the knee. She _murdered_ them, Jon.”

Jon can’t look Sam in the eye. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to again.

Did she use the dragon? Jon wonders. _Probably. That seems like something she’d do._

“I won’t have her as my Queen, Jon,” Sam says, voice too loud.

Jon grabs Sam by the arm, then pulls him further into the crypts, back towards Ned’s statue. They stop in front of it, though Sam’s eyes linger on the grave next to Ned’s, the opposite side to Catelyn.

It takes Jon a second to realize he’s looking at his Aunt Lyanna.

“There’s another choice,” Sam says, distantly, eyes still locked on Lyanna’s statue.

Jon’s never spent any time looking at it closely, but he turns to it now to see what has Sam so enraptured with it.

“She’s your mother, Jon.”

It takes Jon several seconds to realize that Sam is talking to _him,_ then several more to process what he said.

“Wait, _what_?”

“Bran saw it,” Sam rushes to say. “He saw you birthed by Lyanna, he saw Ned take you in his arms as she made him promise to protect you –“

Jon’s face screws with confusion.

“Lyanna . . . is my mother?” He says, brows raised, utterly perplexed. “With . . . Ned?”

“Oh, Jon, _no!”_ Sam says, almost laughing. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that was – no, _no,_ of course not, they were siblings, that’s just –“

Jon forces a laugh too, though nothing has been clarified and now he’s been reminded of his own dishonor.

“Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” Sam says firmly.

So he’s a product of rape, not incest, and not the dishonor he’d always thought; no, this dishonor much worse.

“He married Lyanna in a secret ceremony in Dorne,” Sam continues, and Jon’s thoughts blank completely. “I read about it at the Citadel. I transcribed the High Septon’s private diary, and he detailed in there how he annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia so he could marry Lyanna. Bran hadn’t seen that, you see, he’d just seen that Lyanna was your mother –“

“Sam,” Jon interrupts. His voice is strangled and high pitched, and he doesn’t recognize it all.

Jon stumbles over to Lyanna’s statue, pressing his hand against the base of it. His mother? This is why it was always such a big secret? Because his Fath – _Eddard_ was lying about everything?

And oh gods, how could Lyanna do such a thing? How could she let Rhaegar annul his marriage, disinheriting his children and Elia – oh _poor Elia_ – just so she could marry him instead?

“They loved each other,” Sam says quietly.

Loved each other? They loved each other? That somehow justifies all the fucking bullshit Westeros went through afterwards? Robert’s Rebellion? All those lives? _His_ life, gods, he’d been treated as if he were worthless his whole life because he was a product of Ned’s tumble on the wrong side of the sheets, but now he’s . . . he’s . . .

“Father lied to me?” Jon demands, though his voice is still weak.

“He lied to everyone,” Sam confirms. “To protect you. If Robert had found out . . .”

_He would have killed me._

_And saved me and everyone else a lot of fucking trouble._

“Jon, you know what this means, don’t you?”

Jon’s head is spinning and he feels sick.

It means that he isn’t a Stark. He always knew he never belonged here, but now he knows for certain.

“It means you’re the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Oh, _fuck._

Jon retches, his stomach emptying at the base of Lyanna’s – his _mother’s_ – statue.

He groans, his head thumping against the stone, then drops to one knee.

No. No, no, no, no. He doesn’t want this. He’d come to peace with the fact that he might never know his mother, he didn’t want, he didn’t need . . .

Unbidden, fear ices his veins. If Daenerys finds out . . .

Sam kneels beside him.

Jon takes the other man’s face between his hands.

“Sam,” Jon croaks out. “You can’t say this aloud ever again. It’s _treason._ Daenerys, she . . .”

 _She’s our Queen,_ he means to say.

What comes out of his mouth instead is, “She’ll kill us all, Sam, if you tell her.”

Sam’s mouth pops open.

“Swear to me,” Jon says, “swear you won’t tell anyone else.”

Sam’s eyes scan his face, looking for what, Jon doesn’t know. But he’s so desperate for Sam to listen, he needs him to promise so that he can have time to think about this himself, he needs to come up with a new plan, he needs . . .

“I swear it.”

Jon let’s his head drop to Sam’s shoulder. He brings a meaty hand up to pat Jon’s back.

“I’m sorry about your family,” Jon whispers against Sam’s shoulder.

Sam sighs. “I won’t miss my father, but he didn’t deserve that. No one does. And my brother . . . he was a good lad, you know.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say.

“But you didn’t kill them,” Sam finishes. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

 _I knew she was going,_ Jon thinks but doesn’t dare say, _I should have tried harder to stop her, I should have . . ._

He doesn’t know what, but Jon promises to take his regret to his grave.

The two stay like that for several moments, but Sam breaks this silence awkwardly, as always.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the fearsome Lord Commander and King in the North vomit before,” Sam says thoughtfully.

Jon pulls back with a shocked laugh.

“I have seen a lot of vomit, however,” he continues. “Though this is certainly the most _royal_ I’ve ever seen.”

Jon shakes his head in disbelief.

“You can joke at a time like this?”

Sam shrugs, a sad smile on his face. “Would you rather I took it seriously?”

“Decidedly _not_.”

A commotion from upstairs filters down. Jon and Sam look towards the entrance, the dim circle of light that it is.

“Oh, what fresh hell . . .” Jon mutters.

Sam gives a harsh laugh, then stands and pulls Jon to his feet, too. Sam turns immediately to begin walking back to the courtyard.

Jon lingers with Lyanna for a moment, his fingers running across her clasped hands, and vows to bring something down for her. She just wanted to be with the man she loved, he thinks. He knows that feeling, that longing.

Jon moves to Eddard next, any anger he’d had at the man’s lies disappearing. He understands Ned’s lies all too well; before this moment, he’d had next to no intention of telling Sansa, his family, the full truth of his deception. Looking between Ned and Lyanna, Jon vows to not make the same mistake as they had.

He turns from them, his family if his siblings and Sansa will still have him and - . . .

Siblings.

Sansa.

Cousin.

Jon finds he almost has to wipe a smile from his face as he follows after Sam.

Any relief he’d found drains from him as realizes what the commotion is.

Standing in the courtyard, opposite Bran’s stoicism and Sansa’s angry commands to chain him at once, is Jaime Lannister.

“Oh, _fuck_.”


	2. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright you jonsa clowns, lets just get this last episode over and done with huh? 
> 
> now, tbh, i feel the need to clarify that i actually still believe in jon and pol!jon, but this fic has stemmed from the fact that literally every time i watch an ep this season, i sit there in unbridled disappointment afterwards (even if i later change my mind). yeah, my opinion of s8 will probs change if they ACTUALLY confirm pol!jon, but I've sat with disappointment for 5 weeks now and i'm so over it. yeah, i knew going in to GoT that we'd get a bittersweet ending, but my personal life has changed significantly since i first started watching this show, and while logically i know that we were never going to get a 'happy' ending, my little heart still aches from the possibility of a sad ending. But i can do something about that, and this fic is it. i hope it heals your hearts too. 
> 
> (so, yeah, this fic will have a happy ending, even if it shouldn't)
> 
> also probs should have expressly stated last chap - this is a jon and sansa centric fic! i do plan to fix specific things that bugged me about other characters' arcs, but ultimately, i'm pretty much just combining all our jonsa dreams in one epic conclusion. 
> 
> enjoy this MONSTER of a chapter (fuck fam i worked so fucking hard to get this chap out before the finale aired - like legit, you have no idea how many hours i put in to it. i stopped working on an actual assignment for uni so i could write this chap instead. so. idk. pls enjoy it and if you don't then don't you dare leave a fucking comment detailing all the things wrong with this fic bc i might actually reach through my computer and strangle you) 
> 
> unbeta'd

Sansa

 

Sansa sits, back straight, as she lets Daenerys take the lead on Jaime Lannister’s trial in her own home.

“When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story. About the man who murdered our Father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.”

Sansa blinks, a little perturbed. Her brother would tell her this as a child? No wonder she’s so outraged; it’s been built into her mind and soul.

“He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man, once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp.”

Jaime juts his chin out, no remorse on his face.

Sansa, too, has heard the stories. They weren’t as vengeance tinged, but Sansa grew up knowing of the Kingslayer, and what he’d done.

Sansa doesn’t trust him, either, no matter how odd it is that he’s come, with no army at his back like Sansa had said. But he’d come anyway, knowing how he’d be received. She’ll let this play out, and probably let him stay if just because he’ll be one more sword against the army of the dead, but she won’t defend him.

“He attacked my father in the streets,” Sansa adds, Jaime’s cold stare at Daenerys prompting a bubble of rage in Sansa’s gut. She might let him go in the end, but she’ll lay bare all his crimes first. “He tried to destroy my family, the same as he did yours.”

“You want me to apologize for these things?” Jaime demands, almost in disbelief. “We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my family. To protect them, same as you.”

“Do not compare –“ Daenerys starts.

“The things we do for love,” Bran interrupts beside Sansa, eyes fixed on Jaime.

Everyone’s gaze swivels to Bran. His face is smooth, devoid of emotion like Sansa has come to expect from him, but his stare is intense and meaningful and it prompts Sansa’s own eyes back to Jaime.

He stands there, eyes wide with shock, regret lining his mouth; it’s the most he’s shown the entire time he’s stood before them.

Sansa’s lips part, suddenly confused, and before she can help herself her eyes have dipped over to Jon.

His mouth is pursed in a tight line as he gazes right back at her. His eyes are burning, intense, but there’s a sadness in their depths that hadn’t been there when she fought with him last night.

Sansa turns away from him.

“’Burn them all’, he kept saying,” Bran continues softly.

Jaime chokes on a gasp.

“Bran,” Sansa demands, “what are you saying?”

Bran’s gaze stays locked with Jaime’s. “Some truth’s are more important that others,” Bran tells him.

Jaime’s brows pinch together as his eyes close and he takes a deep breath.

How is it that Bran shares more secrets with Jaime Lannister than he does with his own sister, Sansa wonders.

“I . . .” Jaime trails off. He obviously had had no intention of sharing whatever it is that Bran has prompted him to, because he stutters through several unfinished sentences before he finally lands on one. “He planted wildfire under the city. He was going to . . . he kept saying . . . burn them all.”

Sansa’s eyes close as the Hall waits with baited breath for him to clarify what he’s saying, but Sansa already understands.

“I don’t regret killing Aerys Targaryen,” Jaime says strongly. Sansa opens her eyes to see his chin jutted proudly, gaze fixed purposefully on Daenerys. “If I hadn’t, he would have destroyed King’s Landing and everyone in it.”

Sansa’s tries to hide the breath she sucks in sharply, though it would not be so easy if others were so not distracted themselves by Jaime’s claim.

The Lord’s mutter between themselves, though they quiet immediately when Daenerys says, “And you suppose that justifies Kingslaying?”

Sansa can see Jaime’s anger rise, hot and sudden, and she has only a moment to think that this can’t possibly end well before Jaime spits, “Of course _you_ wouldn’t think so, considering you burnt –“

Daenerys shoots to her feet and Jon does too, though in truth it’s actually Brienne’s interruption that cuts Jaime short.

“What Ser Jaime means to say is –“

Daenerys holds up a steady hand as she bows her head and listens to whatever Jon is murmuring in her ear. His hand has gripped around her elbow, fingers rubbing against her arm in a soothing manner, gesturing briefly with his other hand. Daenerys’ eyes are shut in anger, jaw trembling with fury.

Jaime rightly keeps his mouth shut now, though he obviously doesn’t regret what he’s said.

Tyrion is shooting him incredulous looks, while Brienne is shaking her head at him fiercely. It is to Brienne that he gives reluctant nod, putting a great deal of effort into smoothing his features.

Sansa doesn’t know what to think. What had Jaime been going to say? Burnt what? Burnt who?

She’s not so sure, now, that she wants to just sit and watch this play out; but she isn’t entirely sure, either, how much power she will have here. Daenerys is obviously furious, and Sansa isn’t sure that Jaime’s life is worth turning Daenerys’ ire to her.

No, not his life, a voice in her mind whispers. His _information._

Sansa can barely hear what Jon is whispering frantically to Daenerys but if she holds her breath she can just make out him saying, “We need to hear what else he has to say, and then you can decide at the end what to do.”

This promise is what makes Daenerys open her eyes again. She settles back into her chair, face hard, but she says nothing for several more moments.

When she finally speaks, it is to change the subject. “Your sister pledged to send her army North.”

“She did.”

“I don’t see an army. I see one man . . . with one hand. It appears your sister lied to me.”

“She lied to me as well. She never had any intention of sending her army North.”

Sansa looks over to Jon, to see what he thinks. He doesn’t look surprised, just resigned. Perhaps he’d listened to her yesterday, after all. The thought sobers some of her anger towards him.

“She has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and 20,000 fresh troops,” Jaime continues. “The golden company from Essos, bought and paid for. Even if we defeat the Dead, she’ll have more than enough to destroy the survivors.”

“ _We_?” Daenerys demands, her anger leaking back into her voice.

It doesn’t deter Jaime, however. “I promised to fight for the living. I intend to keep that promise.”

A chair scrapes suddenly, and Sansa is surprised to see that it’s Brienne that is rising to defend Jaime. She’d known, of course, how Brienne had come about Oathkeeper, and the promise Jaime had made to her mother. She’d even detected a fondness in her sworn shield, once, but Brienne had hidden the notion well enough that Sansa had thought herself silly.

She had not imagined Brienne to be so fond that she would come to stand before Jaime as she does, almost shielding him from Daenerys’ gaze.

“You don’t know me well, Your Grace,” Brienne starts, with none of the tremble Sansa expected. It makes her sit slightly straighter. If Brienne is so sure that she would stand before Daenerys’ fury to defend him vehemently, then Sansa will listen. “But I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honour, and he will keep this promise.”

Daenerys tongue rolls between her teeth as she appraises Brienne. “Under what conditions do you know this to be true?”

Brienne lets out a breath, obviously not expecting Daenerys to treat with her cordially enough. “I was his captor, once. But when we were taken prisoner, and some men tried to force themselves on me, he came to my defence. That’s how he lost his hand, Your Grace.”

Daenerys’ lips twitch at that, as do Sansa’s. She had known this, but Brienne had told the story only once, in a clipped tone of voice that had prompted Sansa to not ask any questions. She’d understood at the time that some things are too painful to share. It is surprising to hear it now.

“I know he will keep this promise,” Brienne continues, “because he was the one who sent me North with a weapon and armour, to protect Lady Sansa, in order to keep the oath he’d sworn to her mother, Lady Catelyn.”

Sansa makes sure to keep her face stoic as everyone’s eyes turn to her. She can see from the corner of her eye that Daenerys is losing her patience. Jon is looking at her, too, brow furrowed. She can see it smooth out, suddenly, as if everything has become clear.

Sansa wants this over. And she wants Jaime alive.

“You would fight beside him?” Sansa asks.

“I would.” There is no waver to Brienne’s voice.

“I trust you with my life,” Sansa declares, though she stares directly at Jaime, “and if you trust him with yours, then we should let him stay.”

Daenerys’ head whips towards her, and she opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, Jaime speaks first.

“I would pledge myself directly to you, Lady Sansa.”

Oh. That’s unexpected.

Brienne turns to him, a warning on her face, but Jaime takes no heed.

Sansa had had no intentions of tying her fate so intricately with his, planning only to extract the information she needed from him; but now she is presented with it, Sansa can see no way to deny it.

She glances to her brother. He’s staring at her, and when their gazes meet, his mouth twitches up, just a little.

It’s the only encouragement she needs.

She stands from her chair to come stand before Jaime.

She turns slightly, then holds out her hand. “His sword, please.”

The Hall almost shudders as it intakes its breath sharply. She keeps her eyes on Jaime. Nothing happens for several seconds, then his eyes widen slightly as he looks over her shoulder.

Sansa hears the sound of boots walking slowly across the floor, then the scrape of someone picking up Jaime’s sword from where it rests.

“Tyrion!” Daenerys’ sharp command pierces the air.

“I can’t deny the Lady’s request in her own home,” he says quietly.

 _Yes,_ Sansa thinks, _you can. Her command is more powerful than mine. You just want this, too._

Daenerys says nothing more, and then Sansa’s feels the heavy weight of the sword in her hand. And oh gods is it heavy. She clenches her jaw, but lifts it nonetheless and hands it over the Jaime.

Sansa watches as he unsheathes his sword – Widow’s Wail, she thinks, a dull ache of pain in her gut as she remembers from where it came; if Jaime weren’t swearing it to her now, she might have half a mind to rip it from his hands and keep the other half of Ice herself, in Winterfell, where it belongs – and then gets to one knee.

“I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Sansa hesitates for only a moment, but a glance up to Brienne steels her determination.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

Jaime stands and sheaths his sword. Sansa pauses for a second, then steps close to him and lowers her voice.

“Rename your sword, Ser,” she commands quietly, but with no room for argument.

Jaime eyes her for a moment, then nods once.

Sansa turns back to the High Table, ignoring Jon’s probing look and Daenerys’ fierce glare.

As she sits back down, Daenerys says, “I don’t forgive men’s crimes against my family and Kingdom so easily, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyes roam around the room as she ponders on what to say. She can see many waiting with bated breath, but, unlike them, all fear Sansa had of Daenerys and what she might do has disappeared. They have both just presented themselves to the Lords of the North and Vale very clearly, Sansa knows. After this, there is no possible way any of them would stand behind Daenerys, given a choice. They may even choose to die rather than be subjugated by her.

That would be Sansa’s choice.

Sansa’s eyes fall on Ser Jorah Mormont, who had positioned himself behind Tyrion and Varys; close enough to be near to his Queen, but he’s purposefully inconspicuous. It won’t help him now.

“If we were all like you,” Sansa says, “then I wouldn’t have forgiven Ser Jorah’s presence in Winterfell.”

“Ser Jorah is under my protection,” Daenerys spits.

Sansa isn’t scared.

“And Ser Jaime is under mine.”

Daenerys’ hands have started to tremble in her anger.

Truly, Sansa thinks mildly, how can she hold so much of it in her?

She must sense she’s fighting a loosing cause, though, because she turns to Jon. “And what does the Warden of the North have to say about all of this?”

Yes, what _does_ he have to say, Sansa thinks scornfully.

She doesn’t need him to take her side, because she’s made her case clear enough, and now Jaime truly is under her protection. If Jon sides with Daenerys, the Queen might very well rule to have Jaime’s head lopped off here and now. Sansa can’t let that happen, so she’ll of course have to step in –

“He’s sworn to Lady Sansa, now,” Jon says, cutting off any plans she was making. He actually _is_ taking her side? “He’s under her protection. Besides, we need every man we can get.”

There’s a long pause.

“Very well.”

Daenerys cannot even look at Jaime as she says it, but her voice is clear enough.

Victory tastes sweet.

Jon shoots her a glare, however, and any satisfaction she might have gleaning from outmaneuvering Daenerys in this instance instantly disappears.

Daenerys stands abruptly, and Sansa does too – and still takes joy where she can, and right now it is in the fact that the audience stood up with her, not Daenerys – and suddenly Sansa finds herself more than over this trial.

She turns on her heel and sweeps out of the room first. She will deal with the consequences of that later, if Daenerys deems it necessary.

Sansa hears the heavy steps of Brienne, steps she’s come to know well enough that she doesn’t even need to turn to know it’s her.

“Sansa!”

Her steps falter at the call.

She feels his hand on her arm, and she rips her elbow from his grasp before she can think better of his.

 _He had that hand laid on Daenerys a moment ago,_ Sansa thinks.

She turns on her heel abruptly, and Jon steps back from her as she does. Brienne eyes the pair warily; Jaime is nowhere to be seen, though Sansa doesn’t mind. She doesn’t actually need him to protect her, so as long as he doesn’t get himself killed before she can talk to him then she doesn’t mind what he gets up to. She’ll have to tell him to keep up appearances though; she doesn’t know where he’s gone now, but once she finds him she’ll be sure to tell him he’s not to leave Brienne’s side.

“I need to speak with you,” Jon says, both an urgency and weariness to him that combines to darken his face. He’s never looked older. He seems to carry the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

Sansa doesn’t envy him that.

“So speak, then.”

Jon glances back towards the Hall. “Not here. Come with me. Now.”

Sansa purses her lips, but nods at him. She dismisses Brienne, telling her to find Ser Jaime and bring him to guard her office with her, and then leads Jon away from the Hall.

They’re both silent as they walk, and Sansa takes the opportunity to try and unleash her knot her confusing emotion.

She’s not sure what she’d meant and what she hadn’t yesterday, when she’d yelled at him. She’s been so angry at him that she’d not given him a second to defend himself against her attacks. She regrets that, most of all. Why had he come to her yesterday? Had she truly let herself get so worked up as to deny him his right to clear his mind?

They’re supposed to be partners.

That’s what makes her angriest of all, she supposes. That they’re supposed to be partners, and yet it seems as though he’s chosen someone else over her.

 _Seems as though,_ she reminds herself tersely. _You hardly gave him a chance to prove you wrong._

But if she gives him that chance, she’s scared he won’t tell her what she so desperately wants to hear.

He won’t hold her close, he won’t apologise to her, he won’t murmur in her ear that Daenerys means nothing to him, that he doesn’t love her, how could he when he loves . . .

Sansa pushes the door to her office open roughly, and with it she banishes those thoughts. They’re inappropriate. They’re shameful, and disgusting, and all manner of other words that Sansa reminds herself of in the mornings after she’s laid in bed during the night and pictured him beside her.

Jon lets Ghost inside with them, who had intercepted them on their way to Sansa’s office, and closes the door behind them softly, then turns to her. She can’t decipher the look on his face. When had that happened? When had he become so adept at hiding himself?

“You need to be more careful,” Jon says. “You don’t understand how dangerous she is.”

“Excuse me?” Sansa scoffs, immediately angry. “I don’t understand?”

He winces. “No, that’s not what - . . .” He huffs. “I only meant that she’s volatile and unpredictable. If you keep provoking her, I might not be able to keep you safe.”

There’s a rebuke hot on her tongue, about how she knows what she’s doing and how she doesn’t need Jon – who had made mistake after mistake while he’d been away – to offer advice on the matter, but then she stops. She takes a big breath, and lets all those she’s learnt from whisper in her ear: _what is he really trying to say?_

She thinks of how he’d described Daenerys: volatile, unpredictable; then what he hadn’t said but obviously meant; dangerous. And obviously she feels challenged.

_I had a choice to make. Keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North._

Sansa knows Jon. She knows what she’d warned him of; and oh he might have lashed out at her when she’d done so, but he’s too isolationist to take advice easily and quickly. She knows that he instead takes her words to heart and implements them in his own ways.

Sansa likes to think she knows his heart. That she might know what he’s like when he’s in love. She’d thought she’d seen the signs yesterday, when he’d arrived; but really, what had she seen? She’d watched Daenerys put her hand on Jon’s arm and assumed it meant intimacy. But Jon had his body towards herself. He’d not replied last night when she’d accused him of sleeping with Daenerys, and Sansa realizes she was acting like a foolish girl to immediately equate sharing a bed with _love._ She knows as well as anyone that it means no such thing.

And Sansa need not truly know anything of Jon’s heart to know him as a man: he doesn’t speak derisively of those who don’t deserve it. He would not speak out against Daenerys as he just had if he was able to tolerate her at all, let alone if he loved her.

“Jon,” Sansa says quietly, her hands twisting together in front of her. “Tell me the truth. Do you love her?”

He starts, eyes widening. “ _Love_ her?”

That’s all the confirmation she needs, but Jon rushes onward, stepping closer to her, hands outstretched and voice nervous, reassuring, as if he were a husband swearing to his wife that he loves only her.  

“Sansa, no, _no,_ gods, after this, I hope I never have to see her again.”

Sansa hushes him, reaching out to him in return, hands bracing against his arms and fingers curling around his biceps as she glances over his shoulder and towards the door. She doesn’t know who might stop to listen in, who might just be walking by, and while Brienne is out fetching Jaime and not by her door she won’t have Jon say anything of the sort so loudly.

When her eyes land back on his face, he looks startled, face slightly flushed and lips parted.

 _His hands are warm_ , she realizes faintly, around the much louder realization that they’re resting against her waist.

Her breath hitches, though she tries to hide it around clearing her throat. She might not manage it because this close she can see his pupils widen as they take her in. She’s sure she must be as flushed as he is.

His fingers flex against her minutely – though it’s probably not as minute as it feels, considering he must have moved enough for her to feel it through the wool of her dress – and she can hear his breath start to come shorter.

He’s just startled, Sansa reasons. She’d stepped towards him abruptly, cutting off the answer he’d been giving to her question.

Sansa clears her throat again, more awkwardly than last time, and steps out of his grasp.

His fingers slip from her waist too easily.

She’s being silly. He’s her – well she’s his sister. To her, he’s just Jon; but if she thinks about that too much then she’s certain the earth might swallow her in her shame.

He’s not ruined like she is. He couldn’t possibly feel – would never entertain the same thoughts she does –

“Without Brienne outside, we shouldn’t speak too loudly.”

Her careful words shatter whatever tension had built between them.

Jon takes a deep breath, then gives a shaky chuckle and nods.

“If you don’t love her, why are you pretending to?”

“I must admit,” he says after a few moments, “I hadn’t anticipated that you might actually believe that I’d not only _not_ listened to you, but made _exactly_ the same mistakes you told me not to make.”

Sansa feels a sudden wave of embarrassment.

“You were very convincing,” she says defensively, though it’s hardly true. _Daenerys_ had been convincing. Sansa had let jealousy get the best of her and assumed that he must feel the same way.

“I don’t have to do much,” he says, shrugging awkwardly. “She’s very . . . she see’s what she wants to see.”

“And so now you’ve entangled yourself in a plan with no exit strategy?”

Jon groans with frustration, his gloved hands come up to push through his hair. “Really?” he demands, tone stern with exhaustion. “You’re going to pick _another_ fight with me? I don’t have the patience for it, not today.”

Sansa believes him. She’s not sure what it is about him that makes it so, because if he’d said that only yesterday she would have railed against him anyway – and she _had_ – but today . . . he looks too fragile. He looks too stressed. He looks like he couldn’t bear the weight of her criticisms.

She burns the look of him into her memory. So that in future, she knows when she’s pushed too hard, when he needs a break from her logic, her planning, and he just needs her to listen to him.

“We’ll talk about it another day,” Sansa acquiesces gracefully, and he looks relieved. She’s not lying; she won’t broach it again today, probably not tomorrow, either. She probably won’t even bring it up with him before the War against the Dead, if he doesn’t want it, but that doesn’t mean that she’s not going to start thinking about it, laying the groundwork to get him out of this trap he is too close to springing.

They both lapse into silence. Sansa takes the opportunity to take her seat at her table. Jon hesitates behind the seat on the opposite side, then decides to stand in front of the hearth. He removes his gloves and places them on the tabletop, then holds them out to the flame. Ghost lays beside him, resting his head on his paws as he stares up at Sansa with his red eyes.

“It’s getting harder to get warm,” Sansa says quietly.

Jon grunts, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“I heard you had Littlefinger executed,” Jon says.

Sansa juts her chin, though Jon can’t see.

“I did.”

“What excuse did you use?” Jon gives her a tiny smile over his shoulder, to let her know that he’s only teasing.

Sansa ignores his attempt at lightening the topic, and says seriously, “It will make you angry.”

Jon’s smile drops as he turns to her completely. “Did he touch you?”

“Not while you were away.”

“But he _did_ –“

“Jon,” Sansa interrupts. “You don’t want to know why I executed him. I will tell you one day, but for now, please, don’t worry about it.”

Jon closes his eyes and lets out a large breath. “Alright, Sansa,” he says softly. “Another day.”

They lapse into another silence. Jon stays standing by the hearth, alternating between staring into the flames and looking at her. Sansa waits for him to say something more, but he doesn’t, and so she waits for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He just lingers.

She turns to her work eventually, her letters and ledgers spread haphazardly across the desk where she’d abandoned them a few hours ago when she’d been informed of Jaime Lannister’s arrival. She can hardly believe that when she’d sat here this morning her worries had almost suffocated her; now she’s provoked the Dragon Queen twice in less than a day and Jaime Lannister is her sworn shield.

“You would not believe the day I’ve been having,” Jon says, just as she thinks the same thing.

“Oh, really?” Sansa says, a teasing lilt to her voice, looking up at him. He’s gazing down at her fondly. She turns her eye away, overcome, and says, “My own day has been fairly unpredictable.”

He’s smiles, then finally takes the seat opposite her. “I think I might have you beat.”

She can’t help but chuckle. “Did Jaime Lannister swear himself to you as well?”

“Better yet,” he jokes, though there’s a tightness to his voice now, “Sam told me I’m the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sansa’s jaw drops, her quill falling from her hand.

“Aye, that was my reaction, too.”

“Uh.” She clears her throat, then braces her hands against the table and leans forward. “Start from the beginning.”

He fidgets in the chair, knuckles rapping against the armrests. “My Father is actually Rhaegar Targaryen. My mother was Lyanna Stark.”

And _oh_ does it all makes a horrible kind of sense.

Jon’s foul mood suddenly makes sense, too.

“He told you this only this morning?” Sansa clarifies, breathing deeply. He nods. “You seem to be . . .”

“Well, I’ve not burst into tears yet,” he says wryly.

“Jon.”

His face twists into something awful, something heartbroken. He swipes a hand over his eyes and mouth, then stares into the flames, head propped against his hand. He stays like that for several minutes, tears glazed in his eyes, sorrow etched deeply into every line of his body.

This silence, he cannot break.

Sansa stands and circles the table. She takes him into her arms immediately, threading one hand in the hair at his neck, the other clutching his jerkin as he buries his face into her stomach, his own arms coming to circle around her waist.

“I don’t un-understand.” His voices hitches on a sob.

“Oh, my sweet Jon,” Sansa sighs.

The dam breaks, and suddenly he is inconsolable. He paws at her back and grips her skirts and he sobs and sobs and sobs and in between crying she gently encourages him to tell her what he’s thinking.

“Why did he let me think . . . all this time . . . I’m so _angry,_ Sansa . . . all those people that died over this lie . . . my own Father _lied_ to me, he let us all believe . . . I only ever wanted to be a Stark . . . all my life, it’s been my greatest desire . . . not even a bastard Stark, I’m a _fucking_ Targaryen.”

Sansa drops her knees. She takes his face in her hands and holds him tightly. His tears stem as she holds his gaze fiercely.

“Now you listen to me Jon Snow,” she demands sternly, “Ned Stark was more of a father to you than any other man, whether they sired you or not. And no matter what you think, Rhaegar and Lyanna and Father made their own choices, and it was those choices that led to this. It has _nothing_ to do with you.”

“I - . . .” He moans in pains, but then he nods slowly, once, but it’s enough.

Sansa loosens her grip on him, then wipes away his tears with her thumbs. “And as for your being a Targaryen,” she murmurs, taking care with his face, brushing any lingering wetness, tucking his hair back in place, “well. You’re a Stark to me.”

Jon’s eyes dip closed and he leans forward to press his head against hers. She welcomes it easily, though her knees already ache from where they’re pressed into the floor, and her dress is uncomfortable and damp across her stomach where he’d been crying.

“You should get some sleep,” Sansa whispers to him once his breathing has evened out.

“I have work to do,” he replies gruffly, pulling away from her.

She takes the opportunity to stand, her joints grinding. She rubs against her thigh to sooth the pain absentmindedly. She forgets, sometimes, the stress her body has been put under in her short life; this particular ache is courtesy of her most recent husband, she’s sure.

“I’ll handle it,” Sansa waves away.

Jon’s look is indecipherable as he gazes up at her. It looks something like awe, though she can’t be sure. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone look at her quite like he is right now.

“Sansa, I -,” his voice is croaky, so he clears it, then starts again. “Sansa, I want to thank you.”

“Oh,” she startles, easing back into her chair. “What for?”

“For – well, for everything, really. But I specifically meant for caring for the North while I was gone.”

Sansa feels her cheeks heat slightly under his gratitude. “Oh, it was nothing,” she dismisses.

“It isn’t nothing,” he insists. “You’ve gotten everyone trained and armoured, you’ve kept the people fed and warm, and I – well, I couldn’t have done all this.”

Sansa sighs heavily. “Oh, Jon,” she says, like it’s obvious, “you wouldn’t have had to. We would have done it together.”

Jon looks like he’s having a small epiphany as she says this. It makes him look haggard, having such an alarming clarity appear in his gaze when his eyes are bloodshot and swollen from tears, his hair long and dirty.

“Take my chambers for the afternoon,” Sansa decides, standing. “No one will seek you out there. Go. Rest. Get some sleep, for godssake. You look like you’ve not shut your eyes since you left Winterfell.”

“I haven’t,” he grumbles, though he stands too. “Just, wait, Sansa.”

She pauses on her way to the door, turning back to him. His face is serious again, his lips pulled down with forlorn.

“She killed Sam’s father and brother for not bending the knee.”

Sansa pauses, taking in his unexpected declaration. “I know.” And she does. The raven from the citadel had arrived long before Sam had, and Sansa had come to suspect that the man had not been informed. She’d not been sure how to tell him, and so had kept the information to herself. She regrets that, now, knowing that he’d found out anyway. Probably in quite an undesirable way.

Daenerys had burnt them, Sansa recalls.

Is that was Jaime had been going to say? She files it away to ask him.

“Please, Sansa,” he pleads. “She’s killed men who provoked her less than you are. Don’t assume you’re safe.”

Her heart batters in her chest against her will. She’d determined to not fear Daenerys Targaryen in her own home only an hour ago, but Jon’s seriousness is enough to remind her that it would be arrogant not to.

“I won’t,” she promises.

When she pulls the door open, Brienne and Jaime appear to be in the middle of a heated enough discussion. Brienne is flushed, she assumes from anger, though Jaime looks rather confused.

Sansa eyes them both, then ultimately decides to let it go for now.

“Brienne, please take Jon to my bedchambers and let him in, and organize a bath to be brought for him. I know it’s outside your realm of duties, but I would really appreciate it. Then would you go and supervise the training? I have no more need of you today, so, please, once you get tired, retire for the evening. Ser Jaime, I want you to come with me.”

Brienne nods, then waits a moment for Jon to join her before the two disappear down the corridor.

“You’d leave yourself alone with me?” Jaime asks, cocking his head.

“Who says I’m alone?” She feels Ghost brush against her skirts.

Jaime takes a large step back from them.

“Besides,” she says brusquely, turning down the hall, the opposite way to Brienne and Jon, “you’re my sworn shield now, are you not?”

“I was Aerys’, too.”

Sansa hums. “I’m hardly threatening to burn down a city. Come, this way.”

Jaime follows behind her quietly as they wind through the castle.

Sansa stops first in the kitchens.

“Wynfred, I wanted to thank you for the feast last night,” Sansa greets, smiling at her head cook.

The portly woman wipes her hands against her apron, then gives a small and unbalanced curtsey. Sansa can’t help the smile that always comes when Wynfred does it.

“It was my pleasure, My Lady.”

“As you always say,” Sansa replies warmly. “Still, I apologize for the short notice. Now, how quickly are we going through our stores?”

Wynfred wrings her hands together. “We’ve more people taking the stew than expected, My Lady.”

Sansa purses her lips. “It’s getting very cold. People are agreeing to fight just for the promise of keeping their bellies warm and full in the leadup to the war. Please, be frank.”

“We’ve almost completely run down our grain allocation,” Wynfred says, worry lining her ash-streaked face.

Sansa feels her own face turn into the same expression. She’d allocated a set amount of grain to bake into bread before the commencement of the war. While she’d exaggerated during the meeting yesterday about running low, having stored more than she’d let on, Sansa still didn’t expect Daenerys to arrive with _nothing._

“Alright,” Sansa says. “We’ll ration further. No bread for the morning meal, and alternate between providing it during the midday meal or supper. And the meat?”

Wynfred bites the inside of her lip. “Low as well, My Lady.”

Sansa can’t help her swell of disappointment, though the answer was to be expected. “Halve the amount of meat you use.”

Wynfred titters.

“I know, Wynfred, I know. Halve it. Boil the bones, so our soldiers still get the nutrients.”

Wynfred sighs, but nods. Yes, Sansa shares her agitation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Wynfred gives a rushed curtsey, then goes back to work.

Sansa can’t hide the scowl on her face as she turns back to the door. Jaime is looking at her curiously, though he says nothing, just follows her as she makes her way to her next destination.

They walk quietly, the clang of his sword accompanying the echo of their steps.

“Have you thought of what you might rename your sword?”

“Not yet,” Jaime intones.

Sansa hums. She cares that he changes its name, and he will, but it’s not what she really wanted to ask.

“What were you and Brienne talking about?” Sansa asks.

She hears Jaime’s step behind her falter. He doesn’t answer, though, so Sansa stops and turns to him. He comes to a halt behind her, expression weary.

“Well?” she says, brow raised at him.

He bites the inside of his lip. “We spoke about why I came North,” he relents.

Sansa starts to walk again, though at a much more casual pace.

“And?” she questions. “Why did you?”

“I - . . .” He grunts in frustration, then says, “You’re very stubborn, did you know that?”

“No,” she drawls, “no one’s ever told me that. It’s certainly not why I survived all these years.”

He huffs a short, humourless laugh. “I suppose it’s served you well, then.”

“Though it’s not serving me well currently. You appear to be as stubborn as I.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

She gives him a knowing though tight smile over her shoulder.

“I should have suspected, of course, considering the way you spoke to Daenerys to her face.”

Jaime gives an exasperated sigh. She shoots another look over her shoulder at him; his eyes are rolled skyward, his mouth parted in annoyance. “Was that stubbornness?” he queries, “Or complete stupidity?”

Sansa can’t help her surprised laugh. “Probably the second,” she admits. “Though I’m glad you didn’t just roll over and take it.”

“I’d intended to,” he says slowly. “If your brother hadn’t prompted me . . . she terrifies me.”

Sansa ponders his words for a moment. “You would admit that to me? You, a brave knight, admitting you fear a woman?”

Jaime tugs on her elbow. She stops, startled at his touch, and looks up at him.

“I may be impulsive,” he says seriously, “but I’m not stupid. Only a fool wouldn’t fear her. And only a fool would let pride stand in the way of admitting it.”

“And you take me for a fool?” she says, raising her brow coolly at him.

“ _No_ ,” he says, meaningfully, “I don’t.”

Sansa takes a deep breath and stares at him. Earnest is not a word she would use to describe Jaime Lannister, and so she doesn’t now. But he looks . . . sincere. Serious. He looks like he might be placing his hope for the future entirely on her.

She doesn’t want people to look at her like that. She already feels that expectation too keenly already, that need to keep her people safe, to protect them and their desire for independence; she doesn’t need to see it reflected on people’s faces. It makes all this too real; it makes her remember the true foe that Daenerys is; it makes her remember her enemies are too powerful.

Sansa turns from him in an attempt to hide her stilted breath. She doesn’t want to answer him. She doesn’t know what she’d say, anyway.

And still she doesn’t know why he came North. No matter. She knows when she’s fighting a losing battle, and if she pushes too hard now then Jaime will be unlikely to find himself alone with her again.

So she starts to walk again. They’re close now, anyway.

The storage room she takes them to has it’s door cracked open, voices twittering from inside. They all stop as Sansa appears in the doorway, lowering themselves into curtsies.

“My Lady,” the three women inside murmur.

“Girls, have you run out of fabric already?”

Carla steps forward and nods. “Yes, My Lady. Bree said you’d mentioned we find some here.”

“I was just coming to collect some for you all myself,” Sansa replies, stepping in the doorway. “Though I can’t imagine there’s much left in here.”

Bree whines low in her throat. Sansa turns to her, brow raised.

“Bree,” Carla snaps.

The girl takes no heed, though still hesitantly she admits, “We found a few big boxes that is probably several bolts . . .”

“But?” Sansa questions, because there’s obviously something wrong.

Bree’s head tilts down towards a cluster of several boxes by her feet.

Sansa glances over to Jaime, who gives her a relaxed shrug, then takes a step towards the box.

“Lady Sansa –“ Carla hastens to interject, but Sansa has already seen the problem.

Slowly, she leans down to pick up a piece of the discarded banner, burnt around the edges and torn through, but its sigil still very clear.

She drops it back in the box.

“Use it all,” Sansa commands, her voice hard. “My own discomfort is worth little when people could be dying from the cold.”

All three women murmur their agreement.

“Ser Jaime,” she barks, “help them carry it all to the washhouse.”

Jaime nods and he three women curtsey as Sansa sweeps from the room.

“Is that the Bolton sigil?” Sansa hears Jaime’s voice echo down the hall. “I know theirs was a flayed man, but I’ve never seen one.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, then unclenches her hands. If she weren’t wearing gloves, she’s sure her fingernails would have left moons in her palms.

She needs to get on with her day. Lord Royce is her next contact.

 

Jon

 

When Jon wakes, he feels better rested than he has in months. He tries to cling to that feeling, that peace. It’s easier than most days; Sansa’s scent lingers in the room, but here, in her bed, he’s engulfed by it. He can almost pretend that she’s here beside him as he burrows further under her furs.

Brienne hadn’t said a word to him as she let him in with the key to Sansa’s chamber then left it with him. She’d bowed her head in deference, but he can tell she’s angry with him.

He can tell that everyone is angry with him.

Jon doesn’t know how he ever thought that he could pull off this monstrous lie without telling Sansa. Already she has grounded him completely, has breathed the strength to keep going into his very soul.

Oh, he wants to keep those thoughts at bay a little longer. He feels so content lying here, surrounded by the cinnamon musk that he associates with home. He’d spent countless nights on Dragonstone trying desperately to conjure the scene of what he thought was home, and he feels like he’d spent most of the time since he got back to Winterfell trying to seek it out. The North, the Castle, he’d thought it was. Not until he’d met Sansa in her office last night had he realized it wasn’t Winterfell at all, but her.

He wonders what it tastes like her on skin. If he were to tongue her neck, would she taste as she smells? If he were to kiss her lips, might her mouth be as sweet? And if he were to be allowed to open her dress, if she might let him undo the tight laces of her corset, he wonders if he might find the smell everywhere. Would it be so strong across her chest? Her stomach? Does it linger on thighs, or maybe even at the apex of them?

He can’t help the groan that rips from his throat. _Shameful,_ he reminds himself. _Inappropriate. She’s my_ –

Cousin.

He revels in his relief for but a moment, but the reminder of his newfound relation to Sansa opens the floodgate to all other thoughts he’d been trying not to have.

He rips the furs from his body and presses his feet against the ground.

When he opens the curtains, moonlight spills through. He’s slept for hours. He could probably still go back to sleep, but the grumble of his stomach tells him that it’s probably suppertime.

Sluggishly, he redresses himself. He’d left his breeches and woolen undershirt on to sleep, so on top he layers his tunic and leather jerkin.

As he leans down to lace his boots, he hears Sansa laugh outside in the solar. He pauses, listening. She mustn’t be alone. Had she forgotten that he was here? Should he stay inside the bedchambers, just in case?

He inches closer to the door, trying to get a clue as to whom Sansa is entertaining. He can only hear Sansa speaking, though he can’t make out any words.

Suddenly a second voice overlaps, and Jon is sure that it’s Arya. He hesitates still, but finally he decides that Sansa is not a forgetful woman; she would not bring anyone to her solar if they couldn’t know that he’d been there.

The door creaks as it opens. The conversation in the solar stops as Jon reveals himself. He’d been right; Sansa is sitting on one end of the large lounge, Arya sitting on the single chair next to her. Bran’s sits in his wheeled chair in front of the heart, Ghost next to him, and opposite Sansa is –

“Theon?”

“Oh, Jon!” Sansa greets, smiling widely at him. “You’re awake! I have supper for you, if you’re hungry.”

Cautiously, he walks into the room. He takes a seat beside Sansa, on the big lounge.

“Theon arrived today,” Sansa informs him happily. “I thought we’d all have a family supper together in my solar.”

Arya rolls her eyes as Sansa says _family._ Jon wonders how she’s taking Theon’s arrival. She wouldn’t have seen him since the beginning, since they’d all left Winterfell, and she, like him, would have heard of all the terrible things he’d done.

He wonders if Sansa had gifted her the same honesty she’d gifted him; does Arya understand the immensity of what Theon had done for her?

 _“He said to me . . . ‘I would have taken you to Castle Black. I would have died to get you there,’”_ Jon remembers Sansa telling him, in the early days of them ruling Winterfell together. He’d known before then exactly who had helped Sansa escape but it hadn’t been until that moment that he’d truly understood what it must have been like for the both them. The bond they must have forged as they made their way through the harsh and unforgiving ice of the North.

He’d been overcome, on Dragonstone, seeing Theon again. He’d been able to picture exactly in his mindseye what the sacked Winterfell would have looked like, what the two boys swinging from the rafters must have looked like. They may not have been Bran and Rickon, but they were two boys nonetheless. And yet, Jon had been able to quash that anger in the face of the gratitude he had for Theon helping Sansa.

Arya must have been able to do the same, as while she looks uncomfortable, she doesn’t look like she wants to strangle the life from Theon.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Jon tells Sansa.

She preens under his praise. He can see her cheeks are slightly flushed. There’s a jug of ale on the table. All three of them, minus Bran, have cups but Sansa has never been a heavy drinker. It’s probably hitting her hardest.

The four of them have already started to eat, though Jon cannot blame them. They’d surely not known when he would emerge.

Sansa hands him a bowl of the same chunky stew that they had yesterday; it looks suspiciously watered down today. There isn’t any bread. Jon takes a large gulp. Watered down it may be, but the cooks of Winterfell know how to make something out of nothing.

“How did you manage to excuse us all from the Hall?” Jon asks curiously. “Surely Daenerys has been asking after me.”

Sansa shrugs. “She has, but I told her I hadn’t seen you. And I spent some time in the Hall, but people are coming and going quickly these days. No one minds that we’re not there.”

Jon nods, leaning back into his chair.

“What were you all talking about before I came in?”

“About the time that Father fell into that hole,” Sansa says, grinning at him. “Do you remember, when Mother and Father took all seven of us out for Robb’s nameday?”

It’s one of Jon’s happiest childhood memories. It had been Robb’s tenth nameday; Jon and Theon had been ten as well, while Sansa had been only six, Arya four, Bran three, and Rickon only one.

It seems so long ago now.

“I remember.”

Sansa smiles brilliantly at him.

“I’m surprised you girls do though,” Jon continues, leaning back into his chair.

“I don’t really remember,” Arya says, spinning her spoon in her fingers. “Theon’s been telling the story, mostly.”

Jon can’t help but chuckle a little at the memory. “His face . . . gods, I remember hardly being able to breathe through my laughter.”

Sansa nudges him with her elbow. “Shush, we haven’t got to that part yet.”

Jon hides his smile around his spoon as they all turn back to Theon. He’s eyeing Jon slightly warily, but Sansa’s encouraging nod makes him hesitantly pick the story back up.

“Right, so Robb, Lord Stark, Jon and I are coming back from laying the traps for the small animals,” Theon continues, then clears his throat. “We’re just coming into the clearing where you all are waiting. Lord Stark is talking about how it’s important to remember where you’ve dug your trap, especially when you’ve covered it as well as we did.”

Sansa chuckles here, though Jon isn’t sure what in particular has delighted her. He likes her laugh.

“And he turns to face the three of us, walking backwards, and he – he tripped over a branch or something, I’m not sure, and fell _straight_ through the layer of twigs and leaves we’d laid down and into the hole.”

Arya rolls her eyes in exasperation at their Father’s past antics, while Sansa laughs again.

Jon remembers it so clearly; the look on Father’s face as he’d started to fall, the way all three boys had reached for him, the muffled grunt that they’d heard from the bottom of the hole.

Lady Catelyn had shouted in alarm and rushed over to join them, baby Rickon in her arms, and her remaining three children tottering after her to see what all the excitement was about.

The great Eddard Stark had been laying at the bottom of the not-so-large hole they’d dug, flat on his back, covered head to toe with twigs and leaves and with the most astonished look on his face. Robb had been the first one to burst into laughter, followed by everyone else. Even Lady Catelyn had laughed at her husband.

Sansa and Arya share their own recollections of the day, laughing all the while, and Jon can see Bran smiling from his place by the fire, too.

Jon finishes his meal, the peace he’d found in Sansa’s bed still lingering as he’s surrounded by his family.

It doesn’t last, as nothing ever does.

There’s a quick rap on the door, and all five of them quiet.

Sansa stands to open the door. She doesn’t pull it open entirely, shielding all of them from view and them from seeing who’s called upon her.

“Your Grace,” Sansa greets coolly.

Arya and Theon’s eyes dip over to him. Jon shrinks into the lounge.

“Oh, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys sounds surprised. “I was just looking for Jon.”

“He’s not here,” Sansa replies evenly.

Daenerys doesn’t say anything for a moment, then asks, “Do you mind if I ask why you’re here?”

“In Winterfell, Your Grace?”

Arya smothers her snort with her palm. Theon is looking between the three of them, a confused tilt to his brow.

“ _No_ ,” Daenerys replies, annoyed. “Here, in these chambers.”

Sansa pauses this time, then slowly says, “They’re _my_ chambers.”

“Oh,” Daenerys says, and Jon can hear the relief in her tone. “My mistake, I thought these were the Lord’s chambers. Are they the door down?”

“You _are_ mistaken, Your Grace,” Sansa says coolly, “these are the Lord’s chambers.”

“I thought these were yours?”

“They are.”

The two women fall into a silence. Jon doesn’t need to see their faces to feel how tense it is.

“Not Jon’s?” Daenerys challenges finally.

“No. His are the next door down.”

“Pardon me, My Lady, but should Jon not have the Lord’s chambers?”

Gods, why is she still pressing this? Why does she even care?

“If you don’t find Jon in there, then I’m afraid I’m not sure where he is,” Sansa says instead of replying. “I’ve not seen him all afternoon.”

“Neither have I,” Daenerys admits. “I’ll try the door down. Good evening, Lady Sansa.”

“And you, Your Grace.”

Sansa shuts the door, then turns back to the them.

“That was awkward,” Arya says wryly.

“Thanks for hiding me,” Jon offers.

Sansa gives him a small smile as she sits beside him again, closer then before. When he shifts, he can feel the pressure of her leg against his.

“You don’t like the Queen?” Theon asks meekly from where he’s sitting.

Jon’s eyes snap up to him, his body going rigid. He’d not thought to . . .

“We don’t want her as _our_ Queen,” Arya replies, lounged casually in her chair. She doesn’t seem at all frightened to admit that to Theon.

“I don’t like her,” Sansa whispers mildly beside him.

He doesn’t think that the other two hear her, though, because Theon says, “She didn’t help me get back Yara. She didn’t even _offer_ ,” which spurs Arya to ask him about how he did manage to steal into Euron’s fleet and get his sister.

Jon turns his head to give his attention to Sansa.

“Why not?” He doesn’t either, to be sure, but he’s curious as to why Sansa seems to dislike her personally after having known her only for a day.

“She thinks she owns you,” Sansa replies darkly, brows pulled together slightly in an adorable way that makes her look like she’s pouting, even though her tone reveals how serious she is.

“Aye, she does,” he agrees. “I made her think that.”

“ _Who manipulated whom,_ ” Sansa says, so quietly he can hardly hear her, but he’s not sure what she means by that. Her eyes fix back on his. “Still, even if you did, it means she has inclination towards it anyway. No one owns anyone. I would _never_. . .”

Jon’s heart leaps into his throat.

Sansa trails off, though, her cheeks slightly pinker.

“Would never what?” he presses.

She doesn’t reply, however, just takes a large sip from her ale and then settles beside him, pressing herself to him more tightly and laying her head on his shoulder.

She reaches over to him, sliding her hands over the leather of his jerkin then fingering the material of the tunic that pokes out from underneath it.

“This is really ugly,” she informs him, matter-of-fact. “Where did you even _find_ it?”

He grabs her wrist to stop her exploration; no one is looking at them, but he still feels too exposed.

“I didn’t feel like I should wear my Stark emblazoned attire,” he admits to her quietly.

Sansa pulls her wrist from his grip to twine her fingers through his. She rests their clasped hands against his thigh, tapping her thumb gently against him. It’s all so wonderfully intimate, so heartbreakingly easy. He wants so desperately to do this with her every night, for her to never press herself against any other man this way, and he wants to call her wife while they share their meals in the evenings and he takes her to bed afterwards.

She hums thoughtfully then says, “That’s alright, Jon. I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand.”  

Jon rests his head against hers as his gaze is pulled to find Bran’s knowing eyes.

 

Sansa

 

 

Sansa’s week passes both too slowly and entirely too quickly. It makes sense, of course; while the hours of light wane steadily through the week, Sansa’s days get longer. Her attention is constantly sought for, and she gets very little sleep, and there is so much to organise and plan and do that stress makes time start to feel like honey, but Sansa is always wishing for just a few more hours in the day.

She learns that Gendry is extremely dissatisfied with the amount of Dragonglass brought North.

“I’d thought we’d mined more,” he admits to her quietly, early in the week. “I don’t think Daenerys and her party really understand how many people we’ve got fighting. They must not have brought it all.”

Sansa rubs her forehead anxiously. “Okay. What can we change? What _don’t_ we need?”

Gendry purses his lips. “Well, I’ve been thinking, if fire kills them, then we should stop making arrowheads. We should light the arrows instead. We usually use tows and oil or resin, but rags soaked in alcohol would do just as well. We shouldn’t use any dragonglass on arrowheads.”

Sansa is grateful he has a solution. “Do that, then. Do you have enough time to reforge the arrowheads you’ve already made?”

Gendry nods, obviously relieved.

“Alright. Is there anything else we can replace with fire?”

“Maybe we could use less dragonglass across the castellations on the battlements? We could set fire to the castellations and erect pikes against them.”

“You want to set my Castle on fire?”

Gendry doesn’t say anything, just looks troubled.

“I can’t approve that, I’m afraid. I don’t know enough about the advantages and disadvantages. I’ll send Jon your way, alright?”

Brienne and Jaime find a smooth rhythm in escorting her, and Sansa finds it advantageous to have suddenly found herself with two sworn shields, especially considering Ghost is away from the castle during the day more often than not. With the amount of foreign soldiers wandering the castle and lands around Winterfell, Sansa finds herself feeling extremely vulnerable with so many men loyal to Daenerys watching her; she can’t help but wonder if they know the extent to which she is contesting their Queen, and how loyal they truly are to her. Would they go so far as to eliminate a potential threat? Would they try to scare her by getting her alone, holding a knife to her throat, or maybe try to rape her?

With both Brienne and Jaime, Sansa can always have someone supervising the training yards and someone with her.

Sansa spends little time with Daenerys, and even less time being alone with her. She cites her countless duties, and while she _does_ have them, they are an excuse. Sansa has no need to directly interact with Daenerys. Sansa has seen all she needs to see. Any action Sansa takes from here she can do without talking to Daenerys. In fact, the less they see each other, the more Daenerys will be inclined to forget her presence. Sansa can use that to her advantage.

Arya has somehow managed to avoid being alone with Daenerys at all, though it’s not for lack of attempts made by the Queen. Sansa suspects that the woman is attempting to get on Arya’s good side now that she knows for sure that she can’t get on Sansa’s. Daenerys is probably hoping that she’ll be able to uninstall Sansa as the Lady of Winterfell and replace her with someone more favourable to herself, but Sansa is under no illusions that that is possible – well, unless Daenerys were to have Sansa killed. Sansa sticks closer to the side of whoever is guarding after she has this thought.

She spends time, too, with Tyrion. He first comes to her with gratitude that she’d made the decision to spare his brother, and he only comes more frequently following Sansa’s declaration that it had been an easy choice, in the end.

Her first husband is soul-weary, more so than when she’d known him in King’s Landing. She feels a sting of pity for his woes, but ultimately he becomes such an important source of information that that is replaced with an incredulity as how forthcoming he is. Should he not protect the Queen’s secrets more fiercely?

Tyrion has no problems lamenting to Sansa how he’s fallen out of favour with Daenerys since they stepped foot in Westeros, and Sansa can see that this must be true, even if Daenerys has forgiven him time and again. Daenerys does not so readily ask his opinion as she should. Tyrion also discloses on a particularly cold and dark morning that it was he who had proposed the idea of the wight hunt, and Sansa’s heart closes to him forever. She’d almost lost Jon on that excursion, and Jon has told her this week that it was on that endeavor he’d decided he must bend the knee. The play may have worked well enough for Daenerys – though she’d lost one of her dragons – but it could have cost Sansa everything. There is no forgiving Tyrion for that.

Under her persistent prompting, he also admits to the fate of Sansa’s loyal handmaiden, Shae. Tyrion’s careful admission that he’d killed her inspires such a tapestry of anger and sadness in her that she has to excuse herself to her chambers for almost half of an hour. She smashes a vial against a wall, screaming in her head to the gods about the injustices they delivered, and the absurdity of men and the cruelty they so easily inflicted. As if Sansa needed more reason to slice Tyrion from her heart.

From Tyrion, Sansa also learns that Cersei is pregnant. Sansa hadn’t believed it, at first, saying, “Knowing now that she lied about coming North, do you still truly think so?”

“She told Jaime she was.”

“He knew? And he came North anyway?”

That’s when Sansa starts to make concerted attempts to get to know Jaime Lannister, even though it embitters her soul at first. She doesn’t grow to _like_ him, but she certainly comes to learn several extremely important pieces of information: why he’d come North (to fight by Brienne’s side, he’d said, though Sansa suspects he’s also hoping to find absolution), where his loyalties lie (surprisingly, where he thinks he might find honour, which only confirms Sansa’s thoughts that he’s looking for benediction), what Cersei’s state of mind is (“I don’t know her plan for the North, but assume she has one. She’s enraged by Daenerys and this alliance.”), as well as the details of Cersei’s bargain with the Golden Company.

“What gold did she use?” Sansa asks Jaime over a cup of tea.

“What we took from the Reach. Did you know it was Olenna that had Joffrey killed?”

“I thought it was Littlefinger. They must have worked together. And do you think the Company would switch alliances, if they were to be offered more money?”

“I never dealt with them so I couldn’t be sure, but they’re a mercenary company. I could only assume. And if you were to assure them that they would be under less threat on your side, say, that they wouldn’t be defending a city that has two dragons coming to sack it, they’d be inclined to listen to your proposal.”

Sansa hums and drinks more of her tea.

Arya disappears often, and more times than Sansa can count she goes searching for her sister and can’t find her at all. Sansa knows she spends time in the forge, because she’d come across her once on her way to speak with Gendry herself, and Sansa also knows she spends a considerable amount of time training, either working on her own skills privately or helping others with theirs.

Sansa enquires as to what she’s doing at all other times, and Arya’s response is, “Watching.”

“And what do you see?” Sansa asks cautiously.

“Everything.”

Before supper every day, Sansa sits in with the sewing group. A group of more than fifty women who can spare their time come and go through the day, sewing blankets and gloves and hats tirelessly. Sansa helps them as much as she can for as long as she can, then she takes her supper in the Hall where Lords can come to her if they hadn’t managed to find her during the day to air any and all grievances. Sansa usually stays for more than an hour; she’s never seen Daenerys there, even though she _has_ seen both Jon and her advisors on several occasions.

Then, when the candles start to dim, Sansa retires for the evening, usually to find her family already in her solar. Sansa talks with them while she organizes the paperwork she’ll need to address first in the morning, and then she sits by the fire and sews a new outfit for Jon. She emblazons a direwolf with dark grey stitching over the heart, and then embroiders Ghost under the cuffs of his sleeves. When she gives it to him, she says, “You may not want to display our sigil proudly, and that’s okay, but you _are_ a Stark, Jon.”

He hugs it tight to his chest and presses a lingering kiss against her cheek that burns for the rest of the evening.

They hold a war council five days after Daenerys and her party arrived in Winterfell.

“We’ve dug two lines of trenches, here and here,” Jon points out. “Davos will be overseeing the pikes being mounted tomorrow.

“Perhaps we could line the trenches with tar first,” Sansa offers, “so that they may burn for hours.”

Jon glances at her appreciatively, and doesn’t even take time to think before he says, “Aye, a good idea. Davos, see to it that that’s done first thing tomorrow.”

“And we’re keeping the women and children in the crypts?” Daenerys asks, obviously attempting to offer something as well.

“Aye, that’s what I was thinking,” Jon confirms. “I –“

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Sansa interrupts, because she’s been thinking about this for days, since she first heard whispers that the noncombatants would be held there during the battle. “Jon, didn’t you say that you saw the Night King raise the dead with a wave of his hand?”

His mouth parts for a moment, then he nods eagerly. “You’re right,” he says gravely. “Of course you are.”

Daenerys scoffs. “The castle could crumble under a siege of dragonfire,” she says. “If the Night King decides to use Viserion against Winterfell, then being underground is the safest place.”

Sansa ignores the warning alarm that flashes in her mind at Daenerys point – it is too easy to picture Winterfell being razed by a different dragon – and she says, “If the castle falls, they would be trapped underground anyway, with no one to come and free them. But I _do_ think they should be in the crypt. The only other option large enough is the Great Hall, and there are too many points of entry. We either have them go further underground, where the dead are just dust and we can erect a gate further into the crypts to stop anything from coming in to them, or we seal them in the entryway, between the entrance to the crypts and where the newest bodies are.”

Sansa probably didn’t need to add her objection to Daenerys’ point considering in the end she’d come to the same conclusion, but no matter.

“It’s too dark and cold further down,” Jon decides. “You’d need more supplies. Besides, how would we decide what’s far enough? Crack the tombs? No, we’ll erect a barrier between the entry and the newest tombs.”

The day that what’s left of those who had been manning the Wall ride into Winterfell is not really a day at all. The sun hadn’t risen.

The darkness sets the castle into a calamitous frenzy, only calmed by the news of the certainty of the arrival of the Army of the Dead. Sansa ponders that dichotomy as she finds herself with very little to do. The darkness had thrown people into uncertainty, into the fear of possibility. Now that they know for certain the Army will be here within hours, people have accepted their fate with a calmness that makes Sansa proud.

Sansa spends several hours with Arya and Bran in the godswood. It’s cold, frightfully so. Mostly they all sit together in silence, Bran layered with furs and Sansa and Arya huddled together, Ghost laying across their feet.

At some point, Arya brings up Jon’s relationship with Daenerys. Sansa hesitates to spill the truth, not because she think’s Arya can’t keep the secret, but because she worries that Jon might be keeping it from her for a reason. Sansa can’t think of what that reason might be, however, and so she quietly tells Arya what Jon told her and what she’s pieced together herself.

Arya nods appreciatively and says, “Who knew that little shit had it in him?”

Sansa can’t help but chuckle.

She considers telling Arya the truth of Jon’s parentage, too, but ultimately decides that it isn’t her place. That revelation is entirely between Jon and Arya, it has nothing to do with her. Sansa is sure, in any case, that it will change nothing between them. Jon will always be Arya’s brother, and she’ll always be his little sister, no matter what. The reveal will bring to Arya none of the confusion, the relief, that it’s brought to Sansa.

Most decidedly _not._

It’s not until Sansa’s entire body has gone numb that she insists that they all come inside. She deposits Bran in his room with a roaring fire, and she tries to convince Arya to come with her to her chambers but Arya is persistent that she wants to wander around the castle.

Sansa wonders if that’s her true goal.

Sansa finds herself supping with Theon out in the courtyard, despite the fact that she can’t feel her hands or feet.

It is here that Jon finds her. He appears beside her, hand resting against her shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” she replies, standing.

Theon stands, too. Sansa isn’t sure she will see him again before the battle.

She pulls him to a fierce hug. “Theon,” she murmurs into his ear, “please. Be safe. Your journey isn’t over.”

“I will do what I must,” he says back, voice deep and gruff.

“You saved my life that day,” Sansa tell him, pulling back to grasp his face between her hands. “There is nothing I can say that will impart upon you the gratitude I feel. You’re a good man, Theon Greyjoy.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek.

Jon clasps Theon’s hand within his own, then seemingly decides it isn’t enough as he brings him in for a rough hug, too.

“Protect our brother,” Jon says, resting a parting hand on Theon’s shoulder.

Sansa finds the sentiment beautiful. Neither of them are true brothers to Bran, but they both love him as if he were, will protect him as if he were.

“I will,” Theon says seriously.

Jon turns on his heel and guides Sansa by the small of her back towards her chambers. He shuts the door behind them, then falls back against it, his head bumping against the wood as he shuts his eyes.

Sansa moves to stand in front of the flames, her back to them. Everywhere is too cold, now, and her body still feels frozen from all her time with Bran and Arya in the godswood.

“Have you seen Bran and Arya?” Sansa asks softly.

Jon sighs deeply. “I just saw Bran before I came to you, but I’ve not been able to find Arya since you all left the godswood.”

“I think she went to see Gendry.”

Sansa expects Jon to frown at that, like he does when Sansa spends time with someone who could be deemed a suitor, but he doesn’t. Instead, eyes still closed, he gives a small smile.

“He told me a little bit about his time with Arya, before,” Jon says. “I think he’s missed her.”

“I think he loves her,” Sansa corrects gently. “Arya is a bit harder to read.”

Jon opens his eyes to stare directly at her, a soft expression on his face. “She wouldn’t have gone to him, if she didn’t.”

Sansa breath hitches slightly. Is he still talking about Arya and Gendry? He has a meaningful look on his face, but it probably is just about their sister, she reasons. There’s no need to jump to conclusions.

“Sansa, I –.” He pushes from the wall to come to stand beside her, but he says nothing further. He looks like he has no idea what to say, how to articulate what he’s feeling, and that’s something Sansa has become all too familiar with recently.

Sansa removes her gloves and puts them on the mantle. He follows her lead.

She bites her lip, and reaches one hand out to him. He takes it quickly, easily, their fingers sliding together like they’ve done this a million times. When she’d woken the morning after he’d slept in her chambers, Sansa had wallowed in the embarrassment she’d had over being so bold with him, and in front of her family no less. That had been overshadowed by a much more present longing to be able to do it every night.

They stand like that for several minutes, just in silence, enjoying the other’s company and the feel of their hands entwined together.

“I don’t want to die tonight,” Sansa announces abruptly. “I don’t want _you_ to die.”

“You won’t,” he reassures her softly, reaching his other hand out to rest against her shoulder, fingers curling into the fur of her cloak.

She tightens her grip on his hand and uses her other to grasp the base of his gorget. “Jon,” she says seriously, “this all means nothing to me if our family doesn’t survive the night. If _you_ don’t survive.”

Her declaration is too much for him, it seems, as he purses his lips and darts his gaze from her imploring one.

“We would have had a better chance if we’d found somewhere to funnel them through,” he says, thoughtfully, almost, but mostly mournfully. “So we didn’t have to face their entire army head on.”

Sansa smooths her hand over his shoulder and down his bicep, then back up to cup his neck. “The North is too flat,” she tells him, as if he doesn’t already know that this is the reason they’re making their stand at Winterfell. “The only place we could have done that was the Wall.”

She guides him to look back her, thumb sliding over his cheek.

“I feel like I’ve failed you.”

His voice is deep with grief, eyes misting like he might cry.

Sansa wishes she could kiss him and wipe that expression from his face.

But she can’t, so instead she presses her body tightly against his, his armour digging into her chest, cheek to cheek.

“You haven’t,” she assures him on a whisper.

He shudders against her. “I won’t let you die,” he vows against her, lips tickling her cheek.

“I won’t let you die either.”

This is not a reassurance for tonight, to be sure. Sansa knows she cannot protect him the Night King, not like he might protect her. But Sansa will be damned if she doesn’t save him from himself, from his anger and fear at their Father and his new name, from the trap he had helplessly laid when seducing Daenerys, from any one or anything that would seek to bring them harm, or tear them asunder.

Sansa once dreamed of sharing those vows during a southron wedding, with a southron prince. She much prefers this vow now, to Jon.

He breathes deeply against her. The movement of his chest affects her own.

“Sansa.”

She can’t help the whimper in her throat at the way he’s spoken her name. It’s so sweet, like a promise, like a declaration of love, like she might be the only thing in the world that matters to him.

Jon moves back, just slightly, head turned so his lips are feathered against her cheekbone.

If she were to turn just slightly –

He shifts, then presses his lips more firmly against her, against the corner of her mouth. Her breath shudders, her grip tightens against him, her heart races so fast and hard she can hear it.

“ _Jon._ ”

And then the horn blares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come shout at my about the finale on tumblr! @ladyalice101 
> 
> also, anyone have a particular name they'd like to give jaime's sword? i have a couple ideas but i could be persuaded ...


	3. The Long Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao that finale was an insult to my intelligence 
> 
> in any case, i have nothing to say about it that i haven't already expressed/has been said elsewhere, so yeah, just know that i'm extremely unhappy with it too and rest assured that like ........ no scene that was in the finale will be in this fic tbh. like legit, i can't think of a single one. 
> 
> anyway, in chap 1 i said that this fic would be 20-30k, and since we're already at that point and its only chapter 3, and the chaps are only going to get longer from here ..... well, that was defs bs. 
> 
> i'm not sure how i feel about this chap tbh, but i wanted to get it out bc it's a lot of battle and it was hard to write and also to keep the balance of battle/dialogue right, and i'm pretty over it. i really want to write the next chap lmao, so i just had to push through with this one. 
> 
> but the next one is probs going to be like, super long ngl and i have a lot of end of sem assignments coming up, so expect a lil bit more of a wait for it. a couple weeks, probs, but as is the case with every other fic author, comments make the world turn 
> 
> anywayyyyyyyy, i hope you like it! 
> 
> unbeta'd

Sansa

 

Sansa does not realize that her hand is entwined with Jon’s until they’re in the courtyard, about to part.

He’s led her from her chambers, the two of them running through the corridors, past mobilizing fighters and through crowds of terrified civilians. She stays on his heels as they wind through Winterfell, and so when he turns to her as they both stand in the courtyard and his hand drops from hers, she realizes they’d been clasped together the whole time.

Now, though, the heaviness of his hand has disappeared and the warmth of him along with it, and Sansa doesn’t know what to say to him if these are the last words they say to each other.

Except that, well, she _does_ know what she wants to say. What she wants him to know. What she wants to hear.

She folds him into her embrace, and in turn he wraps her waist with his arms so tightly that he can touch his own body with his fingertips.

“I love you,” she whispers fervently into his ear. She keeps it purposefully ambiguous, so that he will think she means only like a sister loves her brother, even though she does not. She means it like a terrified wife sending off her brave husband, knowing he might never come back to her. She thinks she might sound like it, too.

Sansa can feel his lips against her neck as he dips his head into the crook of her shoulder.

“I love you, too.”

It’s a whisper on the wind, and his words are as carefully crafted as her own – truly, she has no idea if he means it the same way she does, but she guesses that he doesn’t, because no matter what might have just happened in her chambers there is just no _way_ he feels the same way, he couldn’t - but it’s no matter; her heart thumps in her chest. He must be able to feel it, his mouth so close to her jugular.

He takes one last deep breath – is he committing her to memory, like she is him? – and then he steps out of the circle of her arms. He looks like he wants to say something more, brow furrowed in anguish, but then he catches sight of someone over her shoulder.

Any emotion on his face drops to pave an expressionless mask, and then he pastes a pleasant if stiff smile on his face.

“Your Grace,” he greets humbly, stepping further away from Sansa.

Daenerys brushes past Sansa, not offering her a word of acknowledgement, and says without any warmth, “Let’s go. Now.”

She turns on the spot and stalks away from them.

Sansa can’t help the disdain that floods her face as she’s gifted Daenerys’ back.

Jon chuckles slightly, and when she turns to him he’s gazing at her with unimaginable fondness.

“Stay safe,” he requests from her.

“I’ll try,” Sansa relents. She reaches up to cup his face. She shouldn’t, she’s wasting time, but she needs him beneath her hands just for one second more. “Protect our home.”

“Until my dying breath,” he promises.

Sansa has never wished for anything so much as in this second, when she wishes that it won’t come down to that.

Jon steels himself beneath her watchful eyes and tender touch, and then he steps away from her, towards the Dragon Queen.

Daenerys is looking at them with fury in her violet eyes.

 

Jon

 

Jon doesn’t say anything as he leaves Sansa to join Daenerys. Her eyes on him make him feel like he’s walking straight into a dragon’s den, a sharp and poisonous look on her face.

He just needs to make sure that she stays for the battle and doesn’t hurt his family afterwards.

Daenerys doesn’t say anything as they both climb into the saddles of their horses and ride out to the dragons. When they reach the beasts, Daenerys dismounts first, back straight. He can tell that she is more than just weary for the fight to come, but displeased with him, probably even angry.

If he lets it fester now, it will be harder to win her back to his side once the battle is fought. He won’t still need her, afterwards, but he knows better than to underestimate her desire for the Throne; he has seen her destroy everything in her path to get there so far, and he has no reason to think that she would not do the same to Winterfell if he were no longer part of the equation.

Jon isn’t sure how to address her. He knows she doesn’t like _Dany,_ but Your Grace might just remind her that there is a divide between them right now.

“Daenerys,” he settles for, trying to gentle his tone. He should have thought of what he actually wanted to say, rather than what he would call her, because now he has no idea how to follow up.

She saves him the trouble as he slides from his mount.

“So this is why you’ve been avoiding my rooms all week?” she demands. “Because you’ve been in Sansa Stark’s?”

Jon doesn’t even have a second to balk at the implication before apologies are spilling from his lips. “No, no, my Queen, of course not.” What has he come to? He doesn’t recognize the drivel pouring from him. “I’ve just been busy overseeing strategy. It’s been a cruel punishment to have to stay away from you, but you understand how important the people are, I know you do.”

He knows no such thing, but she immediately softens.

“I do know,” she relents. Her voice hardens, however, as she follows with, “I don’t like you spending time with her.”

He’s shocked still for a moment after her demand, but fury soon follows, as it usually does when people speak ill of Sansa. “She’s my _family_.”

Daenerys has never looked more intimidating than she does now; not when she’d confiscated his weapons and imprisoned him on her island, not when she’d told him it was her birthright to rule the Seven Kingdoms and she would, and not when he’d watched her discuss whether to take King’s Landing with her dragons. No, Jon has never been more scared of her than he is in that moment, as she points her fury towards Sansa.

“I - don’t - _care_ ,” Daenerys says, enunciating very clearly. “She won’t accept me as Queen, I already know. And now she wants to take you from me? I won’t let her.”

Jon feels sick to his stomach, so awful that he could retch. She won’t _let_ her? _Let_ her? What does that mean? Would Daenerys kill Sansa before she could do anything? Would she burn her, like she did the Tarly’s? And Jon is not a prize to which she is owed; he cannot be taken.

Jon longs for the moment when he can wash his hands of Daenerys, but today is not that day.

“I have _not_ been spending my time with the Lady Sansa,” Jon says, but because he can’t help himself he adds, “But if I had, I should think that you might be happy that your lover wants to spend time with his family.”

“Not if he chooses to spend it with them over me.”

Jon can’t even think of something to _say_ to that before she’s turned away. What does it even _mean_? She would take his free choice from him? She would lock him in her room for her to use when she feels like it? She won’t have him have any loyalty to anyone but herself?

Daenerys climbs Drogon’s back, the dragon shaking his shoulders and bowing his spine, tense and ready to take flight. Jon hesitates for several moments, but then climbs Rhaegal himself.

Daenerys watches as he does so, obviously waiting to see what will happen.

Jon settles onto Rhaegal’s back, uncomfortable and terrified, as he had been the first time. Even knowing now that he has Targaryen blood in him, he cannot fathom why the beast lets him sit atop him. Jon thinks that they might have forged some kind of connection, and in the wisps of his dreams this past week he has been able to feel a deep rage burning, a vengeance building for the loss of a sibling, an anger at a mother who demanded everything but never preferred him, who let another a child die in order to serve her own purpose. These feelings are not so concrete as that, but it’s the closest Jon can come to understanding.

The dreams Jon had that merged with Ghost’s never felt so alien, so twisted and warped and carved into something destructive. They were no less animal, but there had always been something soft, some protective about Ghost.

When Jon thinks about Rhaegal, he only thinks of fury.

The first trench has been lit, and thousands of swords are burning, pointed to the sky. There is so much darkness, but there is also light. He can see the dead from here.

Drogon takes off into the sky, his fearsome and righteous mother on his back.

Jon follows, because there is no other choice.

 

Sansa

The first trench has already been lit by the time Sansa gets to the battlements. It burns, bright and fierce, and for the first time in more than a day Sansa can see beyond just the castle walls.

The Dothraki stand in the space between the two trenches and from the battlements Sansa watches their arakhs light into flames. It’s almost beautiful, in a haunting type of way.

Dragon screech pierces the air.

Sansa can’t see the army of the dead, but Jon and Daenerys must be able to.

Fire lights up the sky and then lines the ground.

As dragonfire touches the snow she can see tens of thousands bodies rolling closer and closer.

Terror ices her veins as she sees the enormity of the force they’re up against. The first clear thought that comes to her is that Jon had been right. He’d been right about how unbeatable this army was, and he’d been right to do whatever he needed to, to get Daenerys here.

They couldn’t possibly kill enough wights to ever get a clear shot at the Night King if not for the dragonfire.

Arya takes her by the elbow. “It’s alright,” she reassures her. “We have a good plan.”

“Aye, a good plan,” Sansa replies, voice quivering. “But is it enough?”

Arya looks up at her. Sansa can’t tear her eyes from the sight of Jon and Daenerys lighting up the army.

“You should go down to crypts.”

Sansa glares down at her sister. “I will,” Sansa says. “But first I’m following the plan. I have no right to do less than anyone else.”

There are too many dead, Sansa already knows. When they first reach the trench, they fall in to die. Jon and Daenerys keep killing as many as they can, but it was never going to be enough. They can cull the field, and Winterfell can have as much as defense as possible, but unless they kill the Night King it won’t mean a goddamn thing.

The wights breach the first trench, bodies piled up through the fire to make bridges.

The Dothraki raise their arakhs in delight, bloodlust fueling them.

They’d prepared for this. The first trench has no spikes, it has only flames. It hadn’t been constructed to stop the army getting through, it had been to slow them down enough so Jon and Daenerys could kill masses.

“Knock!” Sansa calls. She hears Davos call the same, only a moment after her.

Their respective battlements knock their arrows.

The wights crawl closer to the Dothraki and the second trench.

“Draw!”

Wood and string creak as lit arrows are pulled back.

And closer still come the dead.

“Loose!”

Fire rains down.

Lines fall.

It isn’t enough.

“Knock! Draw! Loose!”

The Dothraki loose their patience.

Sansa presses her hands against the castellation’s. “ _No_ ,” she gasps.

They charge foreward, flaming arakhs a beacon to follow.

It is complete carnage. She watches the Dothraki slaughtered, one by one, and horror makes acid burn in Sansa’s stomach.

The wind starts to whip around them.

“ _Sansa_.” Arya’s fierce snap draws Sansa’s eyes from the terror unfolding before her.

“Light the second trench,” Sansa chokes out. Arya pulls against her arm. Sansa turns, catching eyes with Davos. “Light the second trench!”

He’s already thinking the same thing.

Sansa stares over the battlefield. She can see Jon switch tactics, watches him abandon burning the wights behind the first trench to try and slow down the movement of those in the space between.

The dragons breathe their fire, and behind them Sansa see’s a massive wall of snow.

“There’s no more time!” Arya shouts. “Sansa, get to the crypts!”

Arya presses a dragonglass dagger into her hand. Sansa’s pants are short and sharp in her fear. But Arya is right. She not only can’t help, but she will put others in danger if she stays.

Sansa takes the dagger. Her other hand cups her sisters neck and she presses a hard kiss to her forehead. “Gods, Arya, please, stay safe.”

It’s a nonsensical thing to say. Sansa won’t even be safe, locked away. But she so desperately needs her sister to survive. She can’t bear to lose another person, to lose _Arya,_ her only sister.

Sansa pulls away, before she can do something silly like start to cry in the middle of battle, but she feels a bit better when she can see that Arya’s eyes have misted, too.

“Go.” Arya’s voice is rough as she pushes her gently. “Go.”

Sansa gives her once last glance, then looks up to seek out Rhaegal. He’s still flying furiously, he and Jon trying to give them all the best chance they’ve got.

The second trench isn’t lit when Sansa turns her back, and the wall of snow is so close that she feels like her blood is freezing solid. Her breath mists in the air as she pants, rushing down towards the crypts.

When the blizzard hits, Sansa has not yet reached the crypts. She can hardly see a hand in front of her face, but the torches are enough to guide her way. The guards let her inside the gates.

She takes a second to herself, her whole body convulsing from the cold and terror. Her siblings are out there, _Jon_ is out there, they’re fighting a force that shouldn’t be alive and Sansa is stuck down here, just waiting, hoping. She takes several shuddering breaths, trying to calm herself, but until the battle is done she knows there is no use. The best she can do is try to hide her absolute fear so that her people might draw some strength from her.

When Sansa reaches the bottom of the steps, it seems as though a thousand sets of eyes stare at her, looking to her for guidance. Her tongue catches in her mouth, dry and parched and _what do they expect me to say, my family is out there too, the man I love is out there too, I’m just as scared as you are._

Her nails pinch into her palm.

“Our people are fighting bravely,” she says, voice steadier than she expected it to be. “We must keep faith in them.”

It’s not exactly reassuring, but it soothes them enough that they turn their expectant gaze from her.

Sansa takes a seat beside Missandei, opposite Tyrion.

“Your bravery knows no bounds, Lady Stark,” Tyrion says, then takes a big swig from his flask. “We should have stayed married, you and I.”

Sansa can think of one only man that she would be less prevailed upon to marry, and that man is dead by his own hounds.

“You were the best of them,” she says instead, because at least that is true. Of her two husbands, Tyrion, at least, was kind to her at the time.

His lips purse, thoughts obviously also straying to the little she’d told him of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton.

Sansa can’t help but tighten her cloak about her shoulders, trying desperately to seek comfort where she can. If she tries hard enough, she can almost feel the weight of Jon’s arms around her waist, reminding her that that part of her life is over, that she will never again be betrothed to or marry a man she doesn’t want to - no matter how this struggle for power plays out.

“You married again after Lord Tyrion?” Missandei asks from beside her.

Sansa stiffens. It’s one thing to think on what happened to her at the hands of Littlefinger and Ramsay, and Sansa spends a lot of time trying _not_ to think about it, but she never talks about it. Never. The most she’s ever spoke on it was to Jon, bits and pieces at Castle Black, a little bit more when they’d taken back Winterfell and trauma faced her at every turn, but even then he doesn’t know everything. But she’s not spoken about it in a long time now, except for the brief discussion she and Tyrion had had when he’d first arrived.

“Only once,” Sansa replies vaguely. She doesn’t want to alienate Missandei, but neither does she want to share anything with her. “Have you ever been married?”

Missandei looks startled at the question. “I’ve been a slave all my life, until Queen Daenerys freed me.”

“How did you come to be in service of the Queen?” Sansa asks. It will take her mind off the situation, and it will make her feel like she’s helping. This information, like so much she has gathered this week, will help in the coming wars, Sansa is sure.

 

Jon

 

Through his terror, Jon is _furious._

The Dothraki would charge against the approaching army? When everyone _knew_ that the plan was the to let the dragons and arrows take out as many of the undead as possible before the forces clashed?

It stops him from being able to light up any wights that get through the first trench; he won’t burn anyone from the side of the living.

But it matters not, because the Dothraki are defeated, gruesomely, thoroughly, and they will only add to the dead’s numbers once the Night King arrives. Jon presses his thigh against Rhaegal’s back and pulls against his spines; Rhaegal dips to the left, then opens his maw and breathes fire over the mass making it’s way closer to the second trench, closer to Winterfell.

As Rhaegal cirlces back around, Jon see’s a huge wall of ice and snow coming towards them. His gut drops with dread, and for a moment all Jon can think is that there is no possible way for them to win. It is the thought of Sansa that pulls him from such defeat; of her skin peeling away in deterioration, of her Tully blue eyes changing to the glowing blue of death, of her having to feel that same panic he’d felt as the last knife had slid through his ribs and killed him. He will _not_ let her die, not like this.

When the blizzard comes, the cold makes his fingers frozen and stiff, his cheeks _burn_ and his toes feel numb in his boots. He can’t see in front of him; below he can make out the dull orange of the lit trench, but he can’t see the castle anymore. He moves Rhaegal to the far side of the trench, so he knows not to cross the trench and get too close to Winterfell with his flames.

Jon tries to bring Rhaegal lower, to see through the cloud, but suddenly Drogon is there, in front of him. The two dragons crash in to each other. Jon clamps his body down on Rhaegal’s spine, trying desperately not to fall off. Jon can make out Daenerys’ white hair at this distance, but nothing more.

The dragons steady themselves, hovering next to each other. Daenerys gestures upwards, then urges Drogon higher. Jon follows her. They break through the top of the clouds. Up here, the moon shines brightly over them, clouds rising all around. There is no wind, no sounds of battle. It’s peaceful, almost.

Daenerys is shouting something at him, he thinks, but he has no idea what she’s saying. Instead of trying to work it out, he takes this second to adapt the battle plan.

The plan had been for he and Daenerys to cull as much of the army as they could, and once the fighting started in earnest, once the second trench had been breached, he would go to the godswood to help protect Bran and wait for the Night King to show up, while Daenerys battled against the undead Viserion.

Jon has no idea if the second trench had been lit; the signal was supposed to go out so either he or Daenerys could it, but he can’t see _anything_ through this fucking storm.

If he can’t see anything, the most important thing is to be with Bran. The Night King will not come specifically for Jon, no matter their history, and if Bran is right, then the King’s biggest objective right now will be to get to Bran. The wights, the storm, it is all a distraction to provide the King with the opportunity to get to Bran.

Jon cannot get distracted.

Without turning to Daenerys, Jon urges Rhaegal back towards the ground.

As he gets closer to the ground, the clouds start to break; there are two lines of fire, now, and Jon can see the spires of Winterfell. He doesn’t know how the second trench was lit – or the Dothraki’s arakhs, for that matter – but it’s not important now. With no defence in the space between the trenches, the wights are already lined up, ready to get through the second trench. They’re fanning out, surrounding the castle from all sides, but they haven’t breached this trench, not like they had the first.

This one has spikes topped with dragonglass inside it, unlike the first, though the spikes won’t last forever. The wood is thick, but it will burn eventually. Between the castle walls and the second trench, Unsullied and Northmen wait, ready to fight until their dying breath to stop the wights from getting any closer to the castle.

Jon circles over the army a couple of times, desperate to kill as many more as he can in the few seconds he has to spare.

It’s a mistake.

With no warning, something slams in to Rhaegal, dislodging Jon from his perch. He clings on to the dragon’s spines as Rhaegal shakes himself straight, but he’s been forced too close to the ground; wights jump on Rhaegal’s claws and tail as they scrape the ground, climbing up like ants.

Rhaegal screeches in panic, shaking himself free of the wights, but the experience is enough that Jon can tell that Rhaegal is _scared._

Jon takes the few seconds of calm flying to pull himself back up, glancing over his shoulder to see the undead Viserion flying away, towards Winterfell.

Jon turns Rhaegal back around, urging the dragon faster, shouting, “ _Dracarys!”_ desperately, trying to catch Viserion’s tail. The Night King sits atop Viserion’s back, and doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder at Jon.

Suddenly, Viserion veers right, away from Winterfell. The dragon’s movements become smoother, less intense, almost like a crow or raven. The Night King’s head turns back towards Winterfell.

Jon doesn’t take a second to think about what just happened. He urges Rhaegal faster, towards Winterfell and Bran, not even giving the King another glance.

Rhaegal settles on top of the wall surrounding the godswood.

As he looks over the field, the dead start to breach the second trench. The final line of defence between the castle and the wights meet them in battle, Unsullied and Northmen fighting hard.

Jon looks up around the sky, finally spotting Daenerys. She’d been about to settle Drogon against Viserion, but Viserion stays flying in serene circles over the battlefield. Instead, she turns Drogon towards him. He lands next to Rhaegal just as Jon is swinging his leg over the beasts back, trying to get down and off so he can join the Ironborn in defending Bran.

“Do not get off my child, Jon Snow!” Daenerys shouts over at him.

Jon pauses, shocked enough that he does as she asks. Her anger makes him truly hesitate, wondering what could possibly make her say such a thing.

They had a _plan._ Jon was _always_ going to abandon Rhaegal for Bran.

“You won’t leave him unprotected!” Daenerys commands him. “You will guide him and defend him from his back!”

 _Defend_ him? Jon couldn’t care less about protecting the dragon, not at the expense of Bran and the plan. Jon had only been riding him in order to protect the castle, to meet his own needs.

He is no better than Daenerys in that way.

It’s only that thought that gives him true pause; Jon has felt Rhaegal’s discontent with Daenerys all week, how expended he’s felt. Jon may not love the dragons, he might wish to never see one again after this – no matter his Targaryen heritage – but Rhaegal is still a living being.

He still loves and fears, as much as a purely instinctual animal can.

But this isn’t just about the dragons, or just Jon, or even just about Bran. They’re making a stand for the good of humanity, so that every man, woman and child in Westeros might live past this night.

This is the fact that had always escaped Daenerys, and it is the reason why he had always known he could never trust her. Anyone who fundamentally misunderstands the true nature of this War is selfish and interested only in their own purposes.

Jon slides from Rhaegal’s back.

“If you abandon Rhaegal, I will not make him stay!” Daenerys shouts at him. “I will send him away!”

Jon _needs_ this dragon to stay, gods dammit! He needs Rhaegal to raze the army to the ground, and he needs Daenerys to follow the _fucking_ plan.

But his instinct tells him that he needs to be in the godswood more.

Rhaegal’s giant head shifts slightly, neck arching so he can watch Jon with one yellow eye.

“Go if you must,” Jon tells him. That’s the best he can do. If Daenerys and Rhaegal and Drogon want to go, then they will go, no matter what Jon wastes his time saying now.

Jon ducks down as Rhaegal screeches, then takes off from the wall.

Jon turns his back on Daenerys, ignoring her as she shouts for him to come back. As Jon runs along the top of the wall, trying to get to somewhere where he can climb down to the ground, he can see from the corner of his eye the battle raging on the ground.

The living are fighting well, but still the dead press evermore forward. By the time Jon has found stairs to take him down, he knows that it won’t be long until the dead are crawling through the castle. A retreat has started, though Jon doesn’t think many will make it back into the walls. The dead are too numerous.

As Jon swings down to take the first step down the stairs, he spots a giant running towards the castle, aiming straight for the door. Jon’s breath hitches in his already burning lungs.

He can’t help them.

He has to keep going.

His feet pound beneath him as he pushes through crowds of soldiers, further from the entrance to the godswood than he’d wanted to be.

Jon hears the wooden door to the castle shatter. He remembers a day, in what seems like forever ago, when he’d been on the opposite side, the one trying to get _inside._

Did Ramsay Bolton feel this fear? Jon hopes so.

Jon can’t see Drogon as he finally enters the godswood. He has no idea if Daenerys has abandoned the battle.

He doesn’t stop running until he’s in the clearing, weirwood centered and Bran sitting in front of it. The noise of battle rings through the clearing, but it’s almost peaceful, here. The blizzard cuts over the top of them, and down here it is almost just like it is snowing lightly.

“Bran!”

Jon winds through the Ironborn, coming to a stop in front of his brother.

Jon grips the back of Bran’s neck, frantically looking for any sign of injury.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, voice gravelly from exhaustion.

“Against the weirwood,” Bran says, eerie and light, as if his sentence makes sense, as if death is not imminent. “In the heart. Obsidian, Jon.”

“Bran, what -?”

Jon’s confused question is cut short as an Ironborn shouts in alarm as a wight emerges from the shadows of the forest.

There’s no _way_ they’ve cut through the courtyard so quickly, Jon thinks. They must have come over the wall.

An arrow embeds itself in the wight, and it falls.

Another replaces it, and then another.

“I’ll bring him to you,” Bran says from behind him, as Jon starts to feel true dread ice his heart. “Remember. Against the weirwood. In the heart. Obsidian.”

When Jon turns back to his brother, questions on the tip of his tongue, Bran’s eyes are rolled back, white as the snow.

“He’s been warging all night,” Theon tells him.

The harsh flap of dragon wings sound over them, interrupting anything Jon had been going to say. Jon looks up, Viserion’s degraded body over them. Viserion roars loudly, but instead of shooting fire down at them all, like Jon fears, he spins, the Night King falling from his back and in to the godswood.

Viserion doesn’t stay, instead turning and veering back towards the battlefield.

Jon has never seen the Night King show any emotion, except for maybe smugness, when Jon had lost against him so thoroughly at Hardhome. But now, he glares so fiercely at Bran that Jon _knows_ that this is Bran’s doing; he’s warged into Viserion. That’s what he’s been doing all night. Warging in and out of Viserion, giving them all a chance. It _must_ be why Viserion had so suddenly stopped fighting Rhaegal outside the walls.

The King doesn’t advance towards them. He hangs back in the shadows.

Wights pour forth, countless in their numbers.

Jon moves from Bran’s side, instead going beside Theon.

The Ironborn defend them all brilliant. Arrows shoot through the courtyard, the twang of them vibrating the air.

Slowly, they start to be overrun. It’s a good plan, Jon thinks grimly, as he presses his sword through a wight for the first time tonight. Tire them all out, wait until the last of the living in the courtyard have fallen before coming for Bran himself.

They fight on.

The arrows dwindle.

Jon slices and stabs and thrusts and slashes, and eventually the Ironborn are forced to do the same.

Jon’s arms are heavy with exhaustion, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take. Fear and adrenalin are keeping him going now, but he’s not sure how much longer he will be able to lift his sword. He’s never been in battle this long; it usually lasts an hour at most, but this . . . it must have been hours since he said goodbye to Sansa in the courtyard.

He cuts down a wight, then two more that replace it, and then the fighting stops, all at once.

Defeated wights line the clearing in mounds, Ironborn among them. Theon still stands beside him, panting as heavily as Jon is.

From the shadows, it isn’t more wights that appear. It is the White Walkers themselves. Did they come over the wall? Through the gates? Has part of the castle fallen?

Jon has no idea.

Bran’s voice startles him, as does the word that he says.

“Arya.”

Jon spins on the spot, sword by his side.

Arya stands behind him, a gash against her forehead bleeding heavily.

“What are you doing here?” Jon asks frantically. The clearing is still around them, the White Walkers staring at them all calmly.

“Melisandre said . . .”

“ _Melisandre_ is here?” Jon demands.

Before Arya can say anything, Theon’s, “Um, Jon?” interrupts them.

Jon turns back around.

The Night King has stepped forward, eyes looking past all of them and to Bran.

“Jon,” Bran says. Jon doesn’t turn, not with the King stepping forward again, not with the Walkers following his lead. “Remember.”

Aye, Jon remembers what Bran said – against the weirwood, in the heart, obsidian – but he still has _no_ idea what Bran had actually been trying to tell him.

Several of the Walkers step forward, though not all. The few remaining Ironborn lift their weapons, spears and swords ready to meet the icy point of the Walkers’ swords.

The battle between them is short and fierce. Theon, Arya and Jon stay huddled around Bran, waiting for the Walkers to advance upon them, but they don’t.

Once the last strangled cry of an Ironborn dies out into a gurgle, the Walkers step back into their circle.

Jon’s breath mists in front of him as it comes harsh and quick.

He’s not sure he’s ever been so terrified in his life.

But his little sister stands beside him, their brother at their backs. Jon may not have ever thought of Theon has family before but he does now.

Family either side and at his back, Jon raises his sword.

 _Until my dying breath,_ he’d told Sansa. He wishes he could have had a chance to see her again. Gods, he’s so glad that he’d told her he loves her. He knows that she’d only meant it like a sibling would, but he wishes that he’d made it clearer that that was _not_ how he’d meant it. Still, he’s glad he got a chance to verbalize it. He’s glad that she’ll know that he loved her, no matter in what way she thinks it is.

The Night King advances upon them. He raises his hand behind his back, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.

Behind them, Bran says, “Thank you.”

It only makes Jon more scared. It sounds too much like a goodbye.

Silence reigns in the clearing as the King stops in front of them, sword by his side. All other noise fades for Jon. He can hear nothing, see nothing except this being in front of him.

And then Jon swings his sword.

Longclaw arcs high through the air and against the Night King’s. There’s no sound as they meet, no ring that echoes through the godswood, but Jon’s arms shudder from the force and strength of his opponent. He grunts, pressing down, but the King’s arms don’t move.

Arya and Theon move at the same time, Theon twirling his spear and shoving it towards the King, and Arya ducking under his arms to slice her dagger against his waist.

The King dodges Theon’s advance, but not Arya’s. He doesn’t make any noise as his skin slices open, black tar oozing out.

The King kicks out against Jon’s chest, making him stumble back. Theon attempts to slice the point of his spear over the King’s; the King parries easily, then thrusts. Theon chokes as the sword embeds itself in his gut, then makes no further noise as the King slices his sword up, splitting Theon from gut to gullet.

Arya screams, drowning out Jon’s own shout of shock.

Theon falls to the ground as the Night King’s sword drops back to his side, dripping with Theon’s lifesblood.

How are they going to beat him? Jon laments in anguish. Jon need not fight any longer to know he is outmatched in combat. Oh gods, this was so foolish, how did they think that they could beat this army? Jon doesn’t even know how to defeat the King; Arya’s Valyrian steel dagger had sliced him open, but there was no real wound. The King doesn’t even act like he’s injured. Gods, Jon wishes that he knew what to do, maybe Bran could have –

Bran.

_Against the weirwood. In the heart. Obsidian._

Jon steps away, leaving the space between Bran and the King free.

“Jon!” Arya cries out, jumping in front of Bran.

“Move him!” Jon instructs, voice ragged.

The King tries to make a move towards Bran, but Jon distracts him by slicing Longclaw towards his shoulder. Longclaw sings through the air as it slices downwards. The King blocks, as expected, but Jon slides his sword away almost as soon as they meet, feet dancing deftly so he can swiftly cut upwards. The King is forced to step back to defend himself.

Encouraged, Jon keeps up as his barrage as Arya moves Bran out of the way of their path.

The King figures out Jon’s plan quickly enough, and when Jon next cuts across, the Night King countercuts and slide his sword over Jon’s forearm. Blood drops, then freezes over as the King’s sword does its work. Jon knows the wound will be turning blue. And he thought he was exhausted before; he can feel his life draining from him now. He tries to keep a grip on Longclaw, but he knows he doesn’t have many attacks left in him.

Arya leaves Bran, sliding against the snow to duck underneath the pair and cut open the King’s thigh.

“Against the weirwood,” Jon manages to choke out.

He switches Longclaw to his other hand, the parries against an attack from the King. Jon hooks their crossguards together then spins in an attempt to rip the King’s sword from his hands. It doesn’t work, only leaving Jon open for the King to slice open a cut on Jon’s hip.

Jon almost falls to his knees against the blinding pain, the cold that seeps through him.

It’s only Arya’s battle cry that encourages him to keep his eyes open.

Arya kicks the King in the chest, making him stumble back.

_So close._

The King reaches out, clasping his hand around Arya’s throat. She kicks at him, slashing out with her dagger. If Jon thought that the King could truly feel, he would say that when the King raises his sword, the point faced towards Arya’s gut, he looks almost satisfied.

Jon lunges forward, driving Longclaw through the King’s gut. Jon roars as he presses forward, sword poking through the other side of the King’s body, the force of it enough to drive them both back towards the weirwood.

The Night King’s back slams in the bark of the tree, the tip of Longclaw driving into the weirwood, pinning the King in place.

“ _Arya,_ ” Jon calls hoarsely. _In the heart. Obsidian._ “Dragonglass! Get dragonglass!”

They have to move quickly, gods, the other Walkers will intervene soon, Arya, gods, _where are you, get the dragonglass, please, faster –_

Arya shouts, piercing a black obsidian dagger through the Night King’s heart.

The whole world stops for a split second, holding its breath.

Then the Night King shatters.

Ice sprays, embedding itself into Jon and Arya’s skin. Jon can feel his cheek cut open as he slumps against the hilt of his sword, elbow hooked around it as his knees hit the ground.

It’s . . . over. It’s over?

Jon doesn’t know.

“Is it over?” he asks. He can’t lift his head, eyes swimming with the image of the roots of the weirwood against the snow.

Arya’s hand rests on shoulder.

“The sun’s coming up,” she says simply.

Jon starts to cry with relief.

 

Sansa

 

It’s Brienne and Jaime that open the gate into the crypt.

Sansa is shaking.

The people file out, one after another, as Sansa stands still, the dragonglass Arya had given her hanging limply between her fingers.

She stands, staring into the destroyed crypt through the barrier they’d erected during the week.

Rickon’s caved in face stares up at her.

 _Father’s bone are here, too_.

She doesn’t know which of the wights is Lord Eddard, but she had seen his tomb shatter as her dead Father had risen again.

Brienne comes to stand by her side, gently taking the dagger from her hand.

Sansa doesn’t turn her head.

“We’ve won, My Lady,” Brienne tells her softly. “Would you like to come with me?”

“No,” Sansa replies hollowly. She wants to stay here. She wants to let her desolation and her terror consume her as she stands and stares at her dead family.

Brienne leaves her side, taking Sansa’s weapon with her.

She misses the feel of it in her fingers.

Sansa doesn’t know how long she stands there, but it can’t be long. The heat of adrenalin has not left her yet. She hears steps start to echo from the stairs, but Sansa can’t make her body turn from Rickon.

“ _Sansa._ ”

Her heart seizes in her chest, and her name from his lips breaks her from her spell.

Sansa launches into Jon’s arms, sobs ripping from her throat.

“You’re okay,” she cries, “oh, thank the gods, thank you, _thank you_.”

He cries, too, the both of them shuddering against each other.

She feels wetness seep into her gown, at her navel.

Sansa presses her hand between them, against his hip. “You’re bleeding,” she mumbles.

“It’s stopped now,” he replies.

Sure enough, when she pulls back from him to look down, there’s a cloth pressed over his wound, soaked through but not dripping any more. There’s another wrapped around his forearm, and a gash on his cheek.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, gaze dipping from her and into the crypts.

Sansa sees the exact moment his eyes alight on their brother; his face crumples in anguish, new tears replacing the old ones.

“No,” she replies. Now that she’s turned away from the sight, Sansa doesn’t ever want to see the destroyed crypt again. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to come down here again at all. “Arya? Bran? Theon?”

Jon’s lips part with heartbreak as he shakes his head. “Bran and Arya are alright . . . Theon . . .”

“ _No_.”

Jon gathers her in his arms as she starts to lash and riot, sobs and denials unable to be held down. Maybe she could have, earlier in the day, before she’d felt such terror, before she’d watched the dead come to life, before she’d had to steel herself to potentially stab her baby brother.

But now, she has no will power to crush her emotions. They wash over her, an unstoppable tide, moans of anguish and unending tears, and Jon holds her the whole time, soothing her, hands cupping her head, fingers running through her unkempt hair, arms about her waist as he stops her from accidentally hurting herself.

“I know, my love, I know,” he murmurs, own voice choked with grief. “He saved us, he saved Bran. I know, love. It’s alright.”

“Sansa? Jon?” Arya calls down from the top of the stairs, voice brittle.

“We’re down here,” Jon calls back.

Arya appears at the bottom of the stairs, a cut on her forehead, skepticism writ across her face. “We won,” she says, like she can’t believe it.

Sansa pulls herself from Jon and meets Arya halfway to the stairs, gathering Arya in her arms and pulling her head against her breast, kissing the top of her head fiercely.

Jon joins them, wrapping them both in his embrace. The three stand like that for several minutes, holding each other. Through her grief, she thanks every Old and New god that Arya and Bran are alive, that Jon is alive.

Jon pulls away from the pair, though his hand lingers on her waist. Sansa hopes he never moves it.

“Arya killed the Night King,” Jon says proudly, running his hand over her hair.

“Jon had him pinned against the weirwood,” Arya disagrees lightly. “He was the one who told me what to do.”

“But _you_ stabbed him,” Jon counteracts, a small and proud smile on his face.

Sansa loves that look on his face. She wants to see it all the time.

“That’s true,” Arya says easily. “It was all me, Sansa, Jon was completely useless.”

Laughter bubbles through her tears. “Alright, you two,” she says. “We should go up. There are things to do.”

 

Jon

 

Jon’s morning seems never ending.

He doesn’t know how long he fought for, but he does know that exhaustion lines his very soul. The first thing he does is help gather the wounded to the Hall, where Sam and Maester Wolkan are tending to the worst, and Sansa leads her group of sewing ladies in stitching up the rest.

Jon sits beneath Sansa’s own hands as she threads her needle through the cut on his forearm. They sit in silence, Sansa’s attention steady and strong on her work, while Jon’s own couldn’t be shifted from Sansa’s pretty eyes even if the Night King himself were to walk into the Hall.

Her tongue pokes out slightly between her pink lips. Jon wants to catch him in his own, wants to taste the sweet cinnamon he’s sure is there. He’d almost had the chance before the horn blared, and now he feels like the only thing that is standing between him and blissful oblivion is the watchful eyes of those in the Hall.

As soon as he gets her alone, he plans to take her mouth, if she lets him, and then he wants to suck on her neck, and pull away the laces of her gown, oh he so loves this leather armour that she’s taken to wearing, the way it makes her look as fierce as he knows she is, the way it cups her breasts like he wants to, the way it shapes her silhouette and makes her waist curve under his hands –

“Alright,” she murmurs, cutting the thread. “Let me see your hip.”

He lays back, trying to hide how his heart hammers and his breathing stutters as he rucks up his shirt so she can sew the gash on his hip.

When the Night King had shattered, so too had his magic. The wights, the dragon, gone, and as well the grip of ice that had taken him where the King’s sword had touched.

They’re regular wounds now, no blue, no ice, just deep cuts that need to be carefully tended to.

Sansa focuses intently yet again, though he thinks her fingers might brush his skin more often, and he’s sure that her cheeks are pinker than they had been before.

Still, she finishes quickly enough, pulling his shirt back down, fingertips stained with his blood. He’s called away by Arya before he can even think to say something, and there is no shortage of wounded for her to tend to.

After that, he’d spent hours coordinating pyres and which body should go where and who would be commemorated and who would not.

As the sun peaks high in the sky, then dips to the other side, the people who are left over gather outside the walls of Winterfell to share their gratitude.

Jon gives the eulogy, Daenerys and her forces on one side of him, Sansa and the North on the other. When Jon lights his torch, so too do others. He knows that Sansa is lighting Theon’s pyre; Jon had personally seen to it that Theon would be wrapped in a cloth of Stark and Greyjoy colours, covering the mutilation of his body from anybody’s eyes. He knows that Sansa has also placed a direwolf pin on Theon’s body; when she’d told him she would do that, his heart had ached, for Sansa and himself.

He may never have liked Theon growing up, but Jon knows that the man is part of the family. Theon had ensured it when he’d helped Sansa escape Winterfell.

Finally, finally, Jon finds himself standing with nothing to do. If he waits long enough, he knows that he’ll think of something, or someone will come find him, and he doesn’t want that. It’s been more than a day since he last slept; his bones ache, his cuts throb, and he’s just not sure how much longer he can keep his eyes open.

He wanders through the halls, hand trailing against the wall, trying to keep his body upright. His vision is blurred and every time he blinks he’s fairly he falls asleep for a second, because his whole world tilts and he has to catch himself.

He just needs to make it to his chambers.

Hands suddenly alight on him, against his waist and back. He slumps against the person, not even sure who it is first. His face buries in her hair.

Cinnamon.

Sansa.

Her name slips past his lips. He knows she replies to him, says something, but the only thing he can make out is her reassuring tone and the pressure of her hand on his stomach.

A door opens in front of him, the creak of it echoing in his muddled mind. He knows Sansa is taking off his clothes, because he can feel his body jerking around and then the cold on his skin.

She sits him on the bed, and he almost falls straight asleep like that, sitting up as she tugs off his boots.

He feels a warm and wet cloth against his face, and he can hear the fire crackling, but mostly his mind just feels numb.

“Alright, Jon,” Sansa murmurs, hand smoothing over his face. He thinks he might catch her wrist in his grip – he certainly wants to, at least – but he can’t be sure. “You can rest now.”

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so obvi i included the first bit of ep 4 into this chap, bc otherwise it would have been too short and next chap would have been wayyyyy too long. 
> 
> if anyone DOES want to talk about the finale, or why i didn't like it either thematically/narratively/or even just why i felt so personally devastated over it, then hmu on tumblr @ladyalice101, or i'm even happy to chat with you in the comments! 
> 
> i hope everyone is recovering ok and that fic is making it a little easier for you all <3


	4. The Last of the Starks Pt I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly i forgot to do this last chap but a big thank you to @abi117, who really gave me some solid ideas on how to work targbowl into this fic, even if it's manifesting differently to how they thought it would ;) 
> 
> secondly ... yes .... this is part one of this episode. it is 16k, and i wanted to keep SOME kind of consistency with chapter lengths. it also has a very distinct feel, very different to the second part, bc this is mostly fluff and romantic angst, whereas part 2 is a lot of plot and getting shit done. i figured that bc of this, its going to be pretty intricate and its really setting up the drama for the last two chaps, so writing it is going to be quite an undertaking. and i had this 16k sitting here, ready to be posted, so i figured why not? tide you all over with some fluff while i try and work out the kinks of the next part. 
> 
> introducing a new POV this chap, bc our POV's are really gonna expand next chap. 
> 
> i hope that you all enjoy it! there are several parts that make me laugh every single time i read them, so i hope that you all have as good a time reading it as i did writing it. 
> 
> also. just gonna reiterate so we all get the message loud and clear. this. fic. will. have. a. HAPPY. ENDING. 
> 
> unbeta'd.

Jon

When Jon wakes, red hair covers his face in a tangled curtain. He has to reach up to push the hair from his face, a satisfied grin in place as he recognizes the pressure against his side as Sansa. Her back is curled into his stomach, their hands entwined and resting just above the aching cut on his hip.

As soon as he realizes, however, that this doesn’t make any sense – why had Sansa stayed? It’s entirely improper, and people will _talk_ (or maybe they wouldn’t, Jon doesn’t even know at this point, because he’s sure they wouldn’t talk if he shared a room with Arya, so maybe he’s just projecting his desires onto other people’s perceptions) – he lifts his head.

Arya lays on Sansa’s other side, under the furs and curled into a little ball. Poking out from the top of the furs he can see that she and Sansa’s hands are entwined, too. When Jon turns slightly, he spots Ghost, stretched out in the doorway.

Jon settles back in behind Sansa, burrowing his face in her hair. His whole body aches deeply, but the throbbing on his hip and forearm are the worst. They burn continuously, and no matter how tightly he closes his eyes, he can’t get back to sleep now.

Sansa and Arya are still completely out of it, not even moving as he shifts his body out from behind Sansa’s.

The air is warm from the fire and spring water that travels through the walls, and Jon feels no need to put on more layers of clothes to add to the undershirt that he’s wearing. He does, however, pull on a fresh pair of socks.

He limps over to the window, peeking through it slightly to see what time it might be. The sun is arching through the sky, not yet at it’s highest point, though the morning is well under way. Jon can’t see many people wandering through the courtyard, though he’s hardly surprised. The castle will likely be asleep for hours more, yet.

Smoke still rises on the horizon, blanketing the sky. The smell of burning flesh is still fresh in his mind; he lets the curtain drop closed, shielding the view of wafting smoke from his eyes. Was it only yesterday? Had he only driven Longclaw through the Night King yesterday, watched Arya push dragonglass into his heart and witnessed that darkness be purged from the world forever?

Was it only yesterday that he’d seen Theon be split in half, watched as his warm blood stained the snow red? Only yesterday that he’d learned that Edd had died? That Beric Dondarrion had served his final purpose in saving Arya? That Melisandre had returned and perished into dust? That Jorah Mormont had fallen protecting Daenerys?

That the fearsome Lady of Bear Island had defeated the giant that broke through Winterfell’s walls, only to be crushed in his grip?

Of all these, Jon is surprised to realize that it is Lyanna’s death that affects him the most. He’d been the one to light her pyre; he’d stood, staring down at her pale face, thinking her bravery unmatched. Mourning the loss of another great House.

Mourning her namesake. His mother. Jon feels like he’s just started to mourn his mother. He can picture what Lyanna Stark had looked like, pale and shaking on her birthing bed, bloodied from giving birth to him, her brother at her side as he promised to fulfill her dying wish.

It’s an image that Jon can’t escape, no matter how hard he’s tried to since he found out. It is now only easier to picture it, Lyanna Mormont’s own dead visage adding fuel to his imagination.

Gods, he wishes that he’d paid more attention when they’d all learnt about Lyanna as children. He remembers the generic things, the things everyone knows; that she’d been a beauty, pretty enough to tempt Rhaegar into abducting her and start a war over her – though the abduction part of this story has changed now, it matters not. Rhaegar had still drifted from his marriage, dishonored Elia and not protected her in any way.

Jon knows the things that Eddard had shared with them all countless times; that she was beautiful, but she was willful, with the blood of a wolf running through her veins. That Arya reminded him of her.

Now that he knows the truth of the matter, he thinks that maybe she was more like Sansa. Beautiful, but with a soul of iron, kind but able to get her way; fanciful enough to fall so deeply in love she might forsake her heritage but ultimately knowing enough of love and honour to understand the difference between stories and reality.

The core difference that Jon can’t shake is that Sansa would not plunge the realm into war over love and broken betrothals. She hadn’t yet, not when she would have had every reason to, and he knows that she never would now. Sansa has a dedication to duty that Lyanna either never did or had forgotten for a while.

But Jon can’t fault Lyanna for her decisions, even if they had ultimately led him here. For every mistake she had made, and every sacrifice that the realm, Ned, and Jon had had to make because of who she loved, in the end, she was his mother, and she had begged Ned to hide him so that he might live and be safe. It was her and Ned’s sacrifice that had given Jon life, and he won’t ever lose sight of that.

Rhaegar, however, Jon will _never_ see as his father. Like Jon had told Theon all those moons ago on Dragonstone, Ned Stark was more of father to him than the man who had sired him. And the more that Jon thinks about it, the more that Jon doesn’t understand Rhaegar’s decisions. He already had a wife, a wife who had dutifully bore him two children, who he had shunned to name Lyanna the queen of love and beauty at the tourney, who he had betrayed not only by taking another woman but by annulling his marriage to her and disinheriting her and her children, leaving her unprotected and vulnerable during Robert’s Rebellion.

Jon will never understand those decisions. Rhaegar could have done _anything_ else. He could have taken Lyanna as a paramour or mistress, or even married her without annulling his marriage to Elia, or even, gods, he could have _protected_ her when he’d absconded with Lyanna.

No, as far as Jon is concerned, Rhaegar did wrong by both Elia and Lyanna, and by the realm. The only good thing that had come from it was that the Targaryen Dynasty had fallen; though Jon has a hard time reconciling this fact the more he thinks about it, because while there may have been peace under King Robert, the people had a hard time of it, and it had ultimately led to the Lannister reign. But the end of the Targaryen’s is certainly praise worthy.

It’s all such a big mess.

He wishes he knew more about Lyanna. Ned Stark always was and always will be his father.

Those are the only concrete things he knows.

Jon sighs, and takes a big step over Ghost, entering into his solar.

Jon’s surprised to see Bran sitting in front of the hearth, gazing in to the fire.

“Jon,” Bran greets.

Jon had been going to try and find some milk of the poppy so he might be able to go back to sleep, but he veers towards the hearth and takes a seat in the lounge next to Bran instead.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asks. “Have you slept? Have you been here all night? Do you want me to take you to your chambers, or I can help you into my bed if you –“

“Jon,” Bran interrupts. Can Jon see a smile on his face? He’s not sure, but it’s certainly the closest he’s seen since he returned home. “I’m alright.”

“But have you –“

Bran silences him with a look. Jon closes his mouth, and settles back into his chair.

“I have some things I want to speak about with you,” Bran says, several moments later.

Jon isn’t sure what they might be, but he nods encouragingly.

“You need to placate Daenerys.”

Jon slumps in his chair. This? They’re going to talk about _this?_ Now? Jon doesn’t want to talk about Daenerys at all, let alone on the back of harsh battle, in pain and with Sansa’s scent lingering on his skin.

“She’s angry with you,” Bran continues anyway.

Aye, Jon knows that she is. He’d turned his back on her during the battle, when she’d made an explicit demand of him. He doesn’t regret it, because her demand had not only contradicted the plan but it had also made no sense, but he does know that it will be difficult to mollify her now.

“And she wants to take King’s Landing as soon as possible.”

“I can hardly walk!” Jon squawks, entirely undignified. But it’s _true;_ gods, the gash on his hip must be as long as a handspan, starting at his waist and curling over his hipbone. The one on his forearm aches just as much, though not as long, and it will certainly prevent him from wielding a sword in the near future. Jon can’t imagine even mounting a horse, let alone travelling across the continent to wage another war.

“You will need to be able to fight,” Bran agrees, “but you _should_ go soon.”

“ _What?”_ Jon demands. “You can’t possibly think it’s a good idea to take my men south so soon.”

“Daenerys wants to mobilize by the end of the week,” Bran replies. Jon’s eyes bug widely, astonished. “That would be foolish, of course. But the longer you wait, the more rest her army will have.”

Aye, and the more rest _his_ army will have had, and he’ll have had, and, again, Jon can’t mount a fucking horse right now.

“It won’t give Sansa long to move the pieces into place,” Bran says, quieter this time. “But ride out in a fortnight, Jon.”

“A _fortnight_?” Jon repeats, voice unreasonably loud. “Bran, that is the most foolish strategy I’ve ever heard. These men –“

“These men want peace.” Bran’s voice is hard, now, any gentleness or familiarity gone. “Riding out in a fortnight is the best chance you’ve got.”

_Against the tree. In the heart. Obsidian._

Bran had been right, then. His information had been what had allowed Jon and Arya to defeat the Night King. Jon isn’t sure how such an outrageous plan could possibly lead to victory now, but Bran is his brother. Jon trusts him. If he says that this will give them the best chance to win – against whom, Jon wonders – then it must be so.

Jon gives a stiff nod, lips pursed. He’ll wait to see how his wounds are healing as the fortnight draws to a close; he might have to organise a carriage for himself, so that he can keep healing. The march south will last at least four weeks, and in that time he should have plenty of opportunity to get himself battle ready and –

“You should talk to her.”

Jon scowls. “I don’t want to,” he pouts. He’ll talk to Daenerys later, but first he just wants to enjoy some time with his family.

“I meant Sansa.” Bran shoots him a meaningful glance.

Jon straightens in the chair, suddenly feeling much too exposed. He – what does Bran know? Or what does he think he knows? Gods, what if Bran thinks that Jon means to prey on his sister, that his feelings aren’t acceptable or that Jon isn’t worthy of her.

 _Well,_ he thinks meekly, _I’m not worthy. I fell in love with her when I thought she was my sister, and the things I think of_ doing _to her –_

Can Bran read minds? Jon suddenly thinks frantically, trying to push away the thoughts of Sansa in his bed, but it only makes his fantasies rise faster. Oh, he didn’t even know he still _had_ that one –

“I can’t read your mind,” Bran says flatly, interrupting Jon’s internal spiral.

Jon blinks, then says, “Well then how did you know that that was what I was thinking?”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” Bran deadpans, giving Jon an incredulous look.

Jon doesn’t anything else, feeling chastised and ashamed, and Bran doesn’t say anything more on the subject. They sit there for several more minutes, until all of Jon’s distractions drain from him and pain burns enough for him to stand and take up his original task.

“There’s milk of the poppy on your desk,” Bran tells him as Jon rises.

Jon hobbles over to the table, seeing the vial sitting there alongside a jug of water. “You couldn’t mention it before?”

“I wanted to know how long you’d sit with me.”

Jon pauses, vial half way to his mouth. Bran isn’t looking at him, instead staring into the flames. Because he’s interested in them, Jon wonders, or because he can’t look at him.

“Bran,” Jon says softly, “you’re my brother. I’ll sit with you as long as you want.”

Vial in hand, Jon comes to sit back down with Bran without having taken it yet. He feels like there’s something else that Bran wants to say, but Jon doesn’t know what.

“I’m not . . .” Bran starts, then pauses. “I’m not Brandon Stark.”

Jon deflates.

“But I’m not just the Three Eyed Raven,” he continues, softer. His eyes flick up to Jon, then back to the fire. “Killing the Night King has . . . dislodged something.”

Jon doesn’t know what that means. He’s not sure he ever will. What he does know, however, is that his brother has expressed more emotion in this conversation than he’d seen since he returned, and Sansa had told him that Bran had been no different in the long moons he’d already been at Winterfell.

“You’re both?” Jon asks slowly.

Bran obviously struggles, lips dipped into a frown and brows furrowed, but that doesn’t bother Jon. He’s not sure he’s seen any expression apart from serenity on Bran’s face thus far.

“I’m . . . both,” Bran finally settles with, though Jon can tell from his dissatisfaction that that’s not _entirely_ the truth. But Jon can’t even begin to wrap his head around it, has absolutely no understanding of what the Three Eyed Raven is or what had happened to Bran beyond the Wall, or any of it, really.

He just knows he loves his brother.

Jon stands again and uncorks his vial. He downs the poppy milk in one go, then places it against the table.

“Do you want me to have someone take you to your rooms?” Jon asks. “You should sleep.”

“I’d like to stay here, if that’s alright,” Bran replies, settling back into his chair. “Arya will be awake soon.”

“Of course it’s alright,” Jon says. He pauses for a moment, the circles around the chair to lean down and press a kiss to the top of Bran’s head.

“I don’t care who you are, or who I am,” Jon murmurs into his hair. “You’ll always be my little brother.”

There’s a smile quirked on Bran’s lips as Jon straightens up. Jon pads back towards his room, Ghost’s eyes following him as he moves. Ghost doesn’t move from his place stretched across the doorframe. Jon rolls his eyes, then steps over him.

“Sleep well,” Bran says, amusement lining his tone. Jon glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Sansa won’t wake up for hours yet.”

Jon wrinkles his nose, unsure how to react to that. Bran smiles at him.

Jon shakes his head, smiling himself, then makes his way back into the bed, his wounds already hurting less.

Sansa and Arya haven’t moved at all.

Jon lifts the furs slightly, sliding back in right where he’d left. Sansa lets out a breath as he presses back in to her, and its easy enough to lace his fingers through hers again.

He falls asleep not long after, nose nuzzled into Sansa’s hair.

 

Sansa

Jon’s head is pillowed across her lap as she speaks quietly with Arya. Her fingers are carding through his hair, and every few moments he hums or sighs with content, and she pauses her ministrations, unsure if he’s awake or not, but he only snuggles his cheek into her thighs and she continues on.

Arya had mentioned that Bran had been around earlier, but she’d taken him to his chambers so he could rest before she’d returned to Jon’s.

They’re not talking about anything specific, just general childhood memories.

Sansa is the one who takes the subject to a more serious note, though she doesn’t entirely intend to.

“So,” she says, Jon’s soft curls between her fingers, “what’s happening with you and Gendry?”

Arya’s eyes widen into an aghast disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, please,” Sansa teases. “I know you and he have spent a lot of time together this last week.”

She knows a bit more than that, as she’d said to Jon. Sansa is fairly sure that Gendry is in love with Arya, and Jon’s own confession that even he’d noticed that Gendry obviously missed Arya had only encouraged Sansa’s assumptions.

But Sansa can’t be as sure about Arya’s own affections. Even though Jon had implied that she loves him too, Sansa isn’t convinced. Her quickly puffing cheeks are an indication though. Arya doesn’t blush, and she isn’t doing so now, but she certainly looks like she doesn’t want to talk about this at all.

Then Arya’s eyes narrow, and in what Sansa assumes is supposed to be a spiteful statement to get Sansa to back off, she says, “I fucked him before the battle.”

Sansa does rear back in shock, jostling Jon on her lap. He breathes out a huff of air, fingers tightening slightly in her skirts. Sansa stills, and while she waits for Jon to settle back down she fights all her instincts that tell her to change the subject, that tell her its entirely improper for ladies to talk about the happenings of a couple and especially to do so in a such vulgar way.

Arya is clearly attempting to get a rise out of her, and for that reason alone Sansa doesn’t say any of the things that she wants to.

She swallows deeply, fingers retaking up their path through Jon’s hair, and then asks, “Was it good?”

It’s Arya who blanches this time, obviously not expecting Sansa to continue the conversation. Sansa, however, perhaps more than anyone Arya knows, understands deeply the desire to _not_ talk about such matters. She opens her mouth, to tell Arya that they don’t actually have to talk about it, but Arya’s scowl smooth’s into a more thoughtful look.

“It was,” Arya replies, cocking her head slightly. Then a cheeky grin passes over her face, and she says slyly, “and lets just say that all his work in the forge has given him _very_ talented hands.”

Sansa’s first thought is the memory of Ramsay’s cold hands sliding down her back after he’d ripped open her dress. It makes her skin prick in fear, even now.

But then Jon shifts on her lap, humming yet again, fingers curling a little more around her thigh, and the thought of Ramsay flees and is replaced by the memory of Jon’s heavy hands sitting on her waist or hips, of those hugs when he dips his arms under her cloak and his palms roam a little _too_ much, or his fingers dig a little _too_ deeply, and Sansa doesn’t quite know what Arya means but she understands it a little better.

“I’m happy for you,” Sansa says softly.

Arya’s brow furrows. “Why?”

Sansa flinches a little, inexplicably hurt by the implication that Arya doesn’t understand that Sansa loves her and wants her to be happy. “Because you’re my sister and I love you,” Sansa replies, the hurt leaking into her tone.

“No, why would you -,” Arya pauses, shakes her head, then says, “It was one time. _I_ propositioned _him._ Why do you think anything else will happen?”

“Oh,” Sansa says, surprised. “Well, I suppose that I just thought that you two . . .”

 _Love each other,_ is what Sansa was going to say. But Sansa doesn’t want to step on any toes; if anything, this conversation has confused her even more on the nature of Arya’s feeling, and she doesn’t want to expose Gendry’s feelings if the man himself hasn’t had an opportunity to express them. And, well, what does love mean to Arya? It has _always_ meant something different to each of them, and Sansa is being silly if she thinks that just because Arya is home and the two of them have bonded that suddenly Arya has dreams of settling down and becoming a Lady.

Sansa shakes her head, and lapses into silence, her gaze falling from her sister and down to Jon. Arya goes quiet, too, though from the corner of her eye, Sansa can see that Arya is looking at her oddly.

Sansa changes the subject, before Arya can start to question Sansa’s own romantic life, or, worse, notice something about the way she looks at Jon.

“I’ve been thinking on what to do about Daenerys and Cersei,” Sansa offers.

“Aye, I noticed you’ve been plotting,” Arya says. “Sending ravens, having meetings with Jaime Lannister.”

Sansa’s lips twitch. “Can I assume that you’ve read those scrolls, then?”

“With you clutching them so closely to your chest?” Arya asks, incredulous. “I’m good, Sansa, but so are you. I might have heard you _talking,_ however . . .”

Sansa huffs a laugh. “And?”

Arya’s teasing expression dies, replaced by a much more serious, grave turn to her eyes and mouth. “I want to help,” Arya says. “I want to protect my family.”

“But?” Sansa guesses.

Arya hesitates, then shifts in place, shoving her body from where her back rests against the headboard, like Sansa’s, and shifting down to cross her legs, fingers lacing together in her lap.

“I’m scared,” Arya admits quietly, then looks away, as if it physically pains her to say it out loud. “I’m scared that if I take another Face . . . I’m Arya Stark, of Winterfell, and if I take another Face then I might forget that. The last time I did it . . .”

Sansa is completely still, even holding her breath. She doesn’t know what Arya is going to say, but it _terrifies_ her. Anything that makes Arya shudder – and Sansa has seen Arya do a lot of things since returning that has made her nary blink an eye – makes Sansa shudder, too.

“I will do most anything for our family,” Arya says, “but I don’t want to do that. If there is no other way, then I will, Sansa, for you, but if you have any other ideas . . .”

Sansa reaches over to Arya, grabbing her hand and circling her thumb over hers in comfort. “Of course, Arya, of _course._ ”

Arya deflates with relief, taking a few moments to recollect herself. Then, abruptly, she says, “I want to be the one to kill Cersei.”

Sansa’s hand slips from Arya’s.

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. It seems a contradiction to what Arya had just said, and she’s said it with such vehemence that Sansa has no doubt that no matter what she says, Arya is going to try and make it happen.

Before Sansa can put her thoughts together, try and reason with Arya, or, at least, try to work it into her plan, Jon shifts more deeply, not just nuzzling into her but moving his whole body, hands tightening their grip on her skirts enough that Sansa knows he’s waking up.

“Mm, what . . .?” he mumbles, eyes blinking heavily.

“Afternoon,” Sansa teases, fingers falling away from his hair as he pushes to sit up, pulling the furs away as he does. “Hey, hey!”

Sansa reaches out for the furs, affronted by the rush of cold that suddenly appears, and yanks them back up.

Jon drags himself to sit up beside her, thigh pressed into hers under the furs, hidden from Arya’s keen gaze. Their hands brush underneath, and they both pause. Sansa uncurls her fingers from her palm, and that’s the only encouragement Jon needs. He slots his fingers between hers, then rests their entwined hands on his thigh.

“What day is it?” Jon asks, slightly dazed.

“It’s still only the day after battle,” Sansa replies, squeezing his hand.

“Late afternoon,” Arya adds. “Lucky you’ve woken up. I wanted to pour water on your head but Sansa said that that would be rude.”

Jon raises a brow. “I helped defeat the Night King,” Jon says, a little insulted, “and you would pour water on me while I sleep?”

Arya rolls her eyes. “You’re using that defense on the wrong person, brother,” she says, “I _actually_ defeated the Night King.”

“What she _means,”_ Sansa says diplomatically, “is that there’s a victory feast this evening that we all need to get ready for.”

Jon flinches.

Sansa squeezes his hand again.

“Before we part ways,” Jon says, slowly, eyes downcast, “Arya, there’s something I want to tell you.”

Arya pauses, then asks, “What?” in the most apprehensive and frightened voice Sansa thinks she might have heard ever from her.

Sansa wants to reassure them both that it’s alright, that this revelation will mean nothing, and maybe to Arya it truly will change nothing, but Sansa knows enough of Jon to know that he will be irrationally scared of what Arya’s reaction might be. Jon has always thought himself only pretending to be a Stark, ever since they were children, and the truth of Jon’s father has only reinforced that idea, Sansa knows.

Jon’s eyes dip to her, then back to Arya, then down to the bed. “I’m not your brother,” he says gruffly. _Oh_ , Sansa thinks, _that’s what’s prompted him, Arya calling him brother._

Arya scoffs, though there’s still an edge to it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I mean -,” Jon pauses, then shakes his head sadly, curls bouncing around his face. “I mean, Rhaegar Targaryen was my true sire. Lyanna was my mother.”

 _Sire,_ Sansa notes. Not father. Gods, she has such unbridled relief that he knows that there is a difference.

Arya doesn’t have the reaction that Sansa expected. Instead of surprise, or shock, or maybe even anger, she sags with relief.

“Oh, thank gods,” she mutters. “I thought you were going to say that you were marrying Daenerys.”

Both Sansa and Jon recoil. “ _What?”_ Jon asks, shocked.

“I’ve heard her advisors talking,” Arya defends. “Even _Davos_ thinks it’s inevitable.”

Jon frowns. “Arya,” he says seriously, “If I have to marry Daenerys, I need you to know that it won’t ever be because I _want_ to. It will be so that I can help bring stability to the realm, and keep the North safe from her ire.”

“But she’s your aunt,” Arya says slowly.

Sansa’s heart pounds in her chest uncomfortably. She tries to keep her face smooth, tries to hide the shame that Arya’s words inevitably provoke, but she’s not entirely sure she succeeds. _Something_ must be shown on her face, because Jon glances at her, then swiftly moves his eyes away.

“That’s not an issue,” he says quickly. Beneath the furs, his hand slips from hers. Sansa whips her hand away, tucking it between her legs. Gods, he knows, doesn’t he? He knows how she feels and he’s disgusted by it, he must be, no matter what he says about his relation to Daenerys not being an ‘issue’. Why else would he be so unwilling to meet her eyes? Why else would he have let her hand drop, when only moments ago he’d been clinging on to it for dear life?

Jon rubs his brow. “Arya, all that doesn’t matter,” he says seriously. “I want you to know that even if you can’t see me as your brother anymore, you’ll always be my little sister.”

“Is that a joke?” Arya says, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe those words actually came out of your mouth. ‘Can’t see you as a brother anymore.’ I take that as a personal insult, Jonathon.”

Sansa can’t help the smile that twitches at her lips. “It’s actually Aegon,” she informs Arya.

Arya cackles. “Seriously? Rhaegar couldn’t be more imaginative? He named you after a son he already had?”

Jon frowns at that. Sansa sobers, too.

“I think it’s very disrespectful,” Jon says quietly. “That they would call me that. I’m glad father changed it.”

Sansa wants to take his hand again, but she refrains.

“Then your name is Jon Snow,” Arya says vehemently. “Or Jon Stark, if you wanted.”

Jon shakes his head. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he admits. “But I would feel too much like an imposter now.”

“That’s not true, though,” Arya counteracts. “And if you want the name, Sansa would give it to you.”

Sansa’s breath hitches. So does Jon’s.

_Jon doesn’t have the Stark name._

_No, but I do._

“She will definitely be Queen after all this,” Arya continues. “She’ll legitimize you.”

Oh. That’s what she meant. Sansa laughs nervously, and tries to hide the quiver in her voice when she says, “Don’t be silly, Jon will be reinstalled as King.”

Arya shakes her head, then more gently and seriously than Sansa had anticipated, Arya says, “No, he won’t. I don’t think the Lords will accept it after he bent the knee to Daenerys.”

Jon sighs, long and heavy, then rubs his eyes again. “Let’s not talk about this now,” he suggests. “Don’t we have a feast to prepare for?”

Arya slips from the bed.

“I’ve had some clothes put in your chambers for you,” Sansa tells her. She’d not had an opportunity to work on them herself over the past few weeks, but she had given a trusted sewer the task. Quickly, after seeing the frown on Arya’s face, she adds, “It isn’t a dress.”

Arya gives them a small smile, then slips from the room.

Sansa stays sitting beside Jon for several quiet minutes, neither of them moving at all. She doesn’t want to leave, but she’s just wasting time at this point. She needs to bathe, and Jon does too, and the gods know it will take some time to put on her dress and do her hair.

“I should go, too,” she finally says awkwardly, shifting to try and crawl out the side that Arya just left from.

“Wait,” Jon says, hand settling over her elbow, gently stopping her from going any further. Sansa settles back in beside him, though slightly further away, so that their legs aren’t pressed together anymore. It had been stupid to let that happen, but she won’t make that mistake again. “I just – about what Arya said before, about me marrying Daenerys . . .”

“It won’t come down to that,” Sansa says swiftly. Jon pauses, brow furrowed, like he’s confused. Tentatively, quietly, Sansa adds, “Unless you wanted to.”

“No, no,” he quickly reassures. “No, as I said before, I don’t _want_ to, but I would, if I had to.”

“She’s very pretty,” Sansa blurts, before she can stop herself. “I wouldn’t blame you, if you wanted to marry her.”

“Is that what you think matters to me?” he asks. “That I have a wife that’s _pretty_?”

Sansa goes quiet, unsure what to say. He sounds offended by the thought, and it only makes Sansa feels foolish. _Of course he’d never want to marry me,_ she thinks, _prettiness is all I have to offer, and I’m not as beautiful as her._

“Sansa,” he says, exasperated, but his anger is gone. “I want you to know that I don’t love her. I _need_ you to know.”

Why? Sansa wants to know. Why does he _need_ her to know? Why has he taken the time to bring this subject up at all? And, for that matter, what was that kiss that they’d shared right before the battle . . . gods, not even a hairwidth of a turn and his lips would have been on hers. Had it been purposeful? And if so, for what reason? Was is just a intimate affection, and he’d not been aiming for her lips? Or had he just been taking his time? Would he have kissed her properly if he’d had the chance?

Sansa doesn’t reply to him, too busy trying to work out what he means by all of this.

At her silence, he shakes his head, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” he says gruffly.

“There’s a lot of things we keep putting off talking about, Jon.”

“Aye,” he agrees softly. “We have so many enemies, now.”

“You’re not my enemy, though,” she replies. “We should be honest with each other.”

He sighs in frustration, shifting on the bed and running a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to say, Sansa? Did you want me to lie and say that I’m so unconditionally in love with Daenerys that I gave away your home? Do you want me to say that it’s _killing_ me that father lied me my entire life? Do you want me to say that I have _no idea_ what to do now that the Night King is dead? That I don’t know what to do with myself now that my purpose is just . . . gone?”

“Killing the Night King was not your purpose,” Sansa disagrees. The other things she doesn’t know what to say to, but this she does. “If it were, then you would be dead now, like Beric and Lyanna and Edd.”

“Then what _is_ my purpose?” he challenges. There is anger is his voice now, an unexpected anger. Sansa should have anticipated this. For as long as she’s been reunited with him, the only thing he’s ever talked about is the White Walker threat and defeating it. Now that it’s gone, it’s no wonder that he doesn’t know what to do. “Why was I brought back to life? What is the point of that monstrous lie, of my being a Targaryen, if not to bring an end to the Long Night?”

Sansa ponders her words carefully. “People don’t just do one thing with their lives, Jon,” she says softly. He may not be looking at her, but she knows that he’s clinging to her every word. “To say that all your life will amount to is helping kill the Night King would be reductive to who you _are_.”

“But – but who _is_ that?” His breath is ragged and hitched and his hands are shaking. “Am I a Targaryen? A Stark? Or just a bastard, like I’ve always been.”

“You’re not _just_ anything,” Sansa argues. “Why must you choose? Can’t you be all of those things?”

He doesn’t respond to her. She can tell he disagrees.

“Who do you _want_ to be, Jon?” she asks softly.

He licks his lips. “I want to be - . . .” He glances up at her, eyes raking over her face for several moments. Whatever he was going to say – and Sansa is sure that it had been _something_ – he replaces it with a weak, “I don’t know.”

She wants to push, wants to make him open up and admit his truth, whatever that is, but he’s already been pushed to too much of an emotional edge recently. She will add it to the list of things that they won’t talk about yet.

It’s becoming quite a list.

Instead, she reaches out to brush his hair from his face. “It’s getting very long,” she says gently. “Do you want me to cut it for you?”

His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into her touch. She flattens her palm against his cheek. His own hand reaches up to cover hers, fingers gently fitting into hers.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “Not today. Before I leave, though.”

She’s glad his eyes are closed, so that he can’t see her lip quiver.

“It will be soon, then?”

He sighs, eyes squeezing tighter shut. “Bran says a fortnight.”

“A _fortnight_?” Sansa repeats harshly. She’d never thought . . .

He lets their hands drop into his lap. “I know,” he says, then pulls his grip from hers.

Jon slides out of the bed, ungracefully, his wounds hindering him. “Let’s not –“

“- talk about it, yes, I know,” Sansa interrupts in frustration, sliding from the bed herself. Her hips seize, cramped from holding her position too long and from spending too many hours in the cold in the past few days.

She has to pause to massage her joints, leaning back against the bed, rubbing her hand slowly over the ache that always discomfits her the most.

Jon steps closer to her, hands hovering in the air awkwardly. “Are you hurt?” he asks worriedly. “I thought that you –“

“No, it’s . . .” She tries to give him a reassuring smile, but she suspects it looks more like a grimace because his frown only deepens. “My late husband’s grip hasn’t loosened quite as much I’d hoped.”

Despite having slept for hours on end, she’s suddenly struck with a bone-deep weariness. It takes over her body so quickly that she has to sit down again. To herself, Sansa can sometimes say his name. Out loud, she’s not sure she’s let it spill from her lips since he died. Referring to him as she does now, as her abusive husband, to Jon, in a way that sheds light on the fact that he is not as far behind her as she wants him to be; well, sometimes she does such a good job convincing herself that she doesn’t care anymore than she gets surprised when she’s reminded that she does.

The bed dips as Jon sits down beside her.

“I wish Theon . . .” A sob interrupts her. Sansa covers her mouth with her hand, trying to will her tears not to fall.

Jon curls his arms around her shoulders and presses his forehead to her temple. Their tears mix together as they drip down their faces.

Sansa doesn’t even know how to begin pulling herself back together, mind whirling with all the pain and loss she’s endured for so many years now. And still they are not safe. Still they have more enemies to face, one who sits in Sansa’s home right this moment.

Jon stands, swinging to stand in front of her. He glides the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping her tears. Sansa sniffles, trying to stem the flow. She manages it under Jon’s soft encouragement, his fingers moving steadily.

“We’ve cried a lot this past week,” Sansa mumbles, rubbing her palm into her eye.

“We’ve had a lot of heartbreak,” Jon agrees quietly.

 _And you’re going to leave again,_ she wants to add. But that heartbreak, at least, she can save for later.

Sansa pushes her hair back from her face, then stands. Jon hobbles out of her way as she gives him a brittle smile.

“I should go,” she says. “I’ll have a bath sent here.”

“Sansa –“

“I’ll see you later.”

She turns from him as he furrows his brow. He calls to her again, but she doesn’t stop. If she stops, she’ll do something silly, like cry again, or worse, admit to him why she so desperately doesn’t want him to go.

There’s no handmaiden in the hall as she leaves Jon’s room. She glances to her door, the next one down, then walks out towards the Hall. She comes across a woman in uniform, leaning against a wall, hands pressed into her eyes.

“Carla?” Sansa asks.

The girl startles, then pushes from the wall. “Apologies, my Lady,” Carla mumbles. “I was just - . . .”

“Are you alright?” Sansa presses, coming to stand beside her.

Carla stumbles into a hasty curtsy, saying, “Of course, my Lady, I apologise –“

“- don’t be silly,” Sansa dismisses. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Carla hesitates, then collapses against the wall again, crying fresh tears.

“My – my husband - . . .” Carla doesn’t finish her sentence.

Sansa doesn’t need her to. Dread has already seized her heart.

“Oh, Carla,” Sansa murmurs. She reaches out to take the other woman’s hand.

“What am I to tell our daughter?” Carla asks, breath hitching around a sob, panting hard and fast.

“Breathe, Carla, you need to breathe.”

Sansa keeps a gentle hand on the woman’s hand, but doesn’t try to touch her any further. When she’s like this, she _hates_ when people try to touch her, whether that be her face or her shoulders or her legs. A grip on one hand is all that Sansa can ever stand, mostly because as she starts to come back to herself she likes to have that tether to reality.

Carla cries, but not as much as Sansa expected her to. She pulls herself together quickly, wiping her hands over her face hurriedly.

“Bring your family to the castle for the night,” Sansa offers. “Or for as long as you need. There are spare rooms in the guest house. Promise me you will, Carla.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Carla says, bowing her head. It’s at odds with her vulnerable face and red eyes.

“Promise me,” Sansa nudges, squeezing Carla’s hand.

“I promise,” Carla whispers.

“Good,” Sansa says. She wipes Carla’s face with her palms, then places her hands on her shoulders. “And please, go home for the day. Take the week, in fact.”

“I couldn’t possibly –“

“Carla,” Sansa interrupts, voice stern. “I’ll see you next week, alright?”

Gratitudes spill from her lips, but Sansa waves them away. When Carla disappears down the hall, Sansa takes a deep breath.

Her people have suffered too much. Sansa doesn’t _ever_ want to see them ruled by a southerner again. Sansa will see Jon reinstalled as King if it’s the last thing she does.

Quietly, Sansa makes her way down the hall, trying to find another handmaiden to bring a bath for Jon, and one for her as well.

 

Jon

Even Jon, for how unperceptive he is, feels unimaginably awkward at the feast.

Silence reigns through the Hall, broken only by cups being refilled and plates being scraped. It’s far from the joyous victory feast that he’d always imagined, but then, those imaginings had never included Daenerys and her forces. He’d left such unachievable fantasies - such as peace throughout the realm - behind him when he’d stepped foot on Dragonstone.

Just like then, Jon only feels dread. For years he’d always thought that this moment would mean peace; that, finally, after years of fighting, he’d be able to place Longclaw upon a mantle and know that it would be unlikely he’d ever have to pick it up again. That had been before he’d died. That had been before Sansa – though, for a brief period, when he was King and lived in Winterfell with her, the picture had unfurled to include not only peace but love, with Sansa (and, shamefully, red haired children running around their legs). On Dragonstone, all hope of that had blown away on the wind as Jon had desperately tried to clutch after it.

Jon knows that he might never find peace now. He can’t keep fighting and expect to win. One of these days, he will certainly pick up Longclaw for the last time. He’s dodged death too many times to claim anything else.

 _What a somber thought to have over dinner,_ Jon laments, taking a large pull from his flagon.

It is Sansa, of course, who settles the room.

Her bowl is empty, and she’s had a cup of ale herself. _“It’s a victory dinner, Jon,”_ she’d said to him when he’d raised an incredulous brow at her as a maid had filled it up before dinner was served. “ _I can have a drink, too.”_

That hadn’t been what had confused him; Jon’s just not sure he’s ever seen her drink a whole cup of ale, except for maybe the other night, when the family had all sat down in her solar and had dinner together.

Though the Hall was quiet before, any sound that had echoed through it ceases as Sansa stands, in deference to their Lady.

“My Lords and Ladies, the people of the North,” Sansa starts, voice grandiose and indulgent. “I know we are of a gloomy disposition here, but I must confess that I see not why we must be so tonight!”

Her tone is lighthearted and teasing, and her words in direct contrast to the way he knows she feels. Her heartbroken sobs over the casualties, over Theon, will haunt him until the day he dies.

“We have suffered, it is true,” Sansa continues, softer. “We have lost brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, friends.”

Jon wishes he could take her hand, or press a soothing kiss to her temple. Her voice wavers, and her fingers shake, but she hides her hands behind her back and smiles at the riveted Hall.

“But, against the odds, we have emerged victorious! The living have prevailed, _we_ have prevailed. Of course, we couldn’t have done it without our ally, Queen Daenerys Targaryen –“

Sansa tilts her cup towards Daenerys, coaxing a polite round of applause from the Northerners. Jon loves the small defiance she’s had, in calling Daenerys their _ally_ and not their _queen._

Sansa goes to say something more, but Daenerys stands herself. Sansa gives her a tight smile, her fingers flexing around her cup, but she sits back down gracefully anyway.

Jon makes sure that he doesn’t turn towards Sansa, not while so many people are looking at them and they might be able to detect any sense of the discomfort he has towards Daenerys.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says graciously. Jon hasn’t seen her since the battle. Her tone is light, but she must be angry with him for leaving Rhaegal. “For those of us who were on the battlefield; we fought bravely, and we fought hard, and it is difficult to describe what it is that we saw. I have partaken in many battles, my friends, and I’m proud to say that you are amongst the finest warriors I have ever fought beside.”

Jon has seen this brand of vanity from her before; in which she hides her own pride by complimenting others as well. He can’t help but bristle at her thinly veiled words however. There is pride there, and there are compliments, but there are also pointed barbs at Sansa.

Others in the Hall had detected as much as well, at the beginning of her speech, but Daenerys has hidden it well enough that the crowd is not only placated but they preen with pride as she calls them fine warriors.

Jon is not as impressed.

“I want to thank you all for fighting so hard alongside me –“ Fighting alongside _her? Her?_ It wasn’t _her_ war, Jon thinks indignantly, though he recognizes a moment later that that is an irrational thought. He’s spent years of his life trying to convince everyone that it was everyone’s problem, so now he can hardly claim _ownership_ over it. But then, neither can she – “and for welcoming me in to your home. Once I take my place upon the Iron Throne, I hope to be able to return here often.”

The mood sobers yet again. Daenerys can tell that this part of her speech has not been well received, and she frowns.

Sansa stands again.

Jon takes another deep drink.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she says. “We couldn’t have done it without you. The honour of this evening, however, must go to the person whose dagger stabbed the Night King, ending the Long Night. The Hero of Winterfell, Arya Stark!”

And oh, isn’t that met with raucous applause?

Arya isn’t anywhere to be seen, though no one seems to pay much attention. For all their gloom and broodiness, Northerners need only get a few drinks in them and some sweet praise before they party harder than any other.

Well, except maybe the Free Folk. Jon can’t even see Tormund, but he can certainly hear him.

While the Hall engages in lively chatter and drunken revelry, the high table remains less than celebratory. Jon wants nothing more than to scrape his chair closer to Sansa, to share drinks with her and spend this night in victory, but he can feel Daenerys’ angry eyes on him.

So instead of moving towards Sansa, like he wants, he instead pushes back to angle his chair to Daenerys. He keeps his back turned to Sansa, because he couldn’t bear to catch a glimpse of her face while he does this.

“My queen,” he murmurs, “you spoke well.”

“Not well enough to convince them,” she replies, voice hard, “or you, apparently.”

He sighs. He’d chosen to speak with her because he knew that she would be upset with him, with what he’d chosen to do during the battle, but he still wishes that they weren’t doing this now.

“Is Rhaegal alright?” Jon asks quietly, because he does care about the answer. Jon is fairly sure that he would know if Rhaegal wasn’t, or if he were hurt terribly – Jon wouldn’t dare say that they’re _bonded,_ not like he is with Ghost, but they are _something_ – but Jon hasn’t felt anything amiss. Or, at least, no more so than usual. But he doesn’t want Daenerys to know that they have become so in tune. He’s not sure why, but that piece of information feels like something that she would not only not welcome, but actively rebel against.

“With no thanks to you.”

Jon’s eyes flutter for a moment, a chunk of ice lodging in his gut. He gives her a smile, forced, but in an attempt to be apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have listened to me,” she answers. “I asked you – I _begged_ you – and still you did what you wanted?”

“What I wanted?” he repeats, before he can help himself. He shouldn’t risk angering her, but it’s like she knows exactly what to say to provoke him. “I was following the plan.”

“Battle makes plans difficult to follow.”

“Is that what you told your Dothraki?” Jon says, before he can think better of it. Daenerys’ expression shutters. Oh what a stupid thing to say, he’s really going to have to pay for that.

Her hand clenches around the wood of her armrest, her chin jutting as she turns her face.

Gods. He swallows his own anger. This is bigger than him. Daenerys is powerful, the most powerful in all of Westeros, and she has both a warped sense of justice and an innate belief that she is always right. If he pushes her, if he challenges her too much, she might punish him.

Jon is fairly sure she wouldn’t take it out on him directly, wouldn’t kill him; no, he thinks that she might just love him too much for that. But she might remove Sansa from Winterfell, or force Jon to stay south and never return North.

So he takes a deep breath and tries for another apology, no matter how much it makes his skin crawl.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He tries not to cluck his tongue, then hopes he sounds convincing when he lies, “You’re right. I should have listened to you. You are my Queen, and I –“

His sentence dies. From the corner of his eye, he see’s a man approach the high table, a jovial expression on his face and a drink outstretched in hand. Sansa, Jon realizes. He’s going to talk to Sansa.

 _That’s none of my business,_ he thinks, as Daenerys prompts, “Jon?”

He swallows. Of _course_ she wants his attention now that it’s strayed.

“You are my Queen,” he repeats, mouth dry, “and I should have followed your command.”

“You should have,” she agrees, voice firm. “I won’t forgive it a second time, Jon.”

He bows his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Is this what she thinks a relationship is? One person with power, the other subservient? Or is she just good at compartmentalizing, good at separating their personal relationship from her actions as queen? He doesn’t see how that could be true, considering the way she’d behaved on Dragonstone, but the alternative, the first option, is so much more sickening.

She smiles at him, pleased.

“What happened to you, after the cremation?” she asks.

He hesitates. In the silence, he can hear Sansa laugh. Jon stiffens, trying to resist the urge to turn around. Who _is_ that man? A Lord, Jon is certain, but he’s never been good with names. He always had Sansa for that.

Where are Jaime and Brienne? Surely they should be with their Lady, protecting her from - . . . from what? A Lord, while she’s in full view of a hundred people? Jon almost scoffs at his ridiculousness, but then Sansa laughs again.

Jon is saved from having to answer by the appearance of Tyrion. As soon as Daenerys’ attention is occupied for longer than a moment, Jon pushes his chair back and stands immediately. Does Daenerys look after him? He doesn’t know.

Jon sits down on the table beside Sansa, hitching one leg up, ignoring the pull of his cut, and staring the other man up and down.

“Jon,” Sansa greets, rather jovially, if Jon says so himself. There’s a happiness to the edge of her voice that has been missing since – well. Perhaps when she and Arya had been teasing him? “I’m sure you know ser Winston Snow. He’s a commander for Lord Manderly.”

Not a Lord himself, Jon thinks, again eyeing the man from toe to head. Sansa deserves no less than a – _than a what, Snow?_ Jon demands of himself derisively. _Than a bastard turned Targaryen, who gave away her home and who lusted after her when he thought her his sister?_

“A pleasure to meet you,” Jon says.

“And you, My Lord,” Winston greets. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Ser Winston and I were just talking about his first swordfight,” Sansa adds, taking a small sip of her drink. Jon’s eyes follow the smooth column of her throat as she swallows.

“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Winston says humbly. “The master at arms had me flat on my back in two moves.”

“I’m not sure I even lasted that long in my first fight,” Jon replies graciously. It pays off, because Sansa laughs in to her hand. He turns to her, a teasing smile on his face, and he says, “Oh, you remember it, do you?”

Sansa laughs again. “No,” she admits, “but I _do_ remember you and Robb complaining about how sore you were to anyone who would listen.”

Jon snorts. “I’m not surprised that that’s what you remember. Father had to sit us both down and give us a talk about the ‘proper way to conduct ourselves’.”

Sansa snorts another laugh. Jon can’t but help stare at her; it’s so unlike her, so unladylike, and, truly, Jon doesn’t think he could ever see her like this enough. She looks young.

She looks beautiful.

“I was much the same,” Winston adds. Jon’s eyes slide up from Sansa, startled. He’d forgotten he was there. “The first time you pick up a sword – a real, steel sword . . .”

At this point, Jon has spent so much of his life with a sword in his hand that he can immediately feel the weight of it in his hand, he knows exactly how to curl his fingers to mimic the hilt of his sword.

Instead of all of that, Jon only says, “They’re heavier than expected.”

“They don’t _look_ that heavy,” Sansa says. Both he and Winston turn to look down at her, eyes wide. “I think you’re both exaggerating.”

Winston laughs, a booming, heavy laugh, but Jon can only blink at her.

She catches sight of his incredulous expression, and a teasing and mischievous smile starts to spread across her face.

“I mean really,” she continues, “how heavy could it be? They’re not even that big.”

“Not even –“ Jon repeats, while Winston keeps laughing. “Alright, you know what -?”

Jon stands to unbuckle his sword belt, keeping daring eyes on her. Sansa takes another nonchalant sip of her drink.

Jon holds out his sheathed sword to her, raising a brow. “Come on then,” he challenges, holding Longclaw out to her further, “let’s see if you’ll still think it’s _not that heavy.”_

Sansa stands easily, putting her cup down on the table. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip, then bites it – don’t think about her lip between your teeth, Snow, do _not_ \- then reaches out to take the hilt from him.

The sword immediately dips, the tip of it hitting the ground as Sansa’s arm shudders under the weight. She pouts as he laughs, but she recovers quickly enough, wrapping her other hand around the hilt and lifting it up.

Winston jumps out of the way as she brandishes it around proudly, almost hitting him in the stomach. Jon laughs again, then reaches out to cover her hands with his own, guiding her to hold the sword with the tip angled down. Body pressed against hers, Jon shifts slightly, lining his arm under hers to guide her to wield it properly in front of her.

“Not so easy, hm?” he murmurs, trying to resist the urge to turn his face into her neck, bury his nose in her hair or press an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

“It is rather heavy,” she admits. Does she sound breathless? She sounds breathless. Oh, he can’t be sure.

“You look like a true knight, My Lady,” Winston says.

Is he too close to her? He’s too close. And it’s getting very warm in here. The fires must have too many logs.

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa replies, smiling broadly, “though I think I might leave the swordfighting to you gentlemen.”

Jon takes the sword from her hands and steps away from her, feeling indescribably warm. In that moment, there is nothing Jon desires more in the world than to take her around her waist and bid everyone a good night so he might take her to his rooms and bear her down on his bed.

Instead, he rests Longclaw against the table then hitches himself back up on it.

He can see that Tyrion has left Daenerys to join his brother and Brienne, but if Sansa is what he desires most, then Daenerys is what he desires least.

Jon can hear Tormund before he sees him. He tears his eyes away from the vision of Sansa in her new dress to look instead at Tormund’s approaching visage. The man is clearly sloshed, more so than any of the trio Jon’s part of, but he’s not surprised that this is the case when Tormund wields his horn under Jon’s nose.

Sour goat’s milk.

Jon had had it several times up North, and it always hit him harder than any other drink he’d ever had. The taste, as well, had always left something to be desired, but Tormund has always seemed to like it.

“Go on then,” Tormund goads, “show us that you don’t just have a pretty mouth! Put it to good use.”

He can think of one or two ways he’d like to put it to good use. Did Jon’s eyes slide to Sansa? Gods, he hopes not.

“I can’t drink this is one go,” Jon protests, though he takes the horn from Tormund’s waving hand. “I’ll be sick.”

“Nonsense!” Tormund crows. “You southerners are weak, but you aren’t _that_ weak!”

Jon looks down at the drink warily. Tormund can say what he likes about weakness, but Jon knows the truth; he’s seen men drink this much and pass out for hours in their own vomit.

“Go on,” Sansa encourages, beaming up at him, “I believe in you.”

Winston’s hand rests against the back of her chair.

Gods, he’s going to make a fool of himself if he actually drinks this. But Sansa is giving him such wide eyed earnestness, and, really, if it pleases her, then he will gladly embarrass himself for a pretty laugh from her.

He brings it to his lips slowly, looking out over the rim at his companions cautiously.

Tormund gets impatient with him. “Bottoms up, King Crow!” He puts his fingers on the tip of the horn and pushes up, forcing the drink out.

Jon hurriedly swallows, though Tormund is way too enthusiastic, tipping the cup more than Jon can handle. He tries his hardest, but drink inevitably dribbles down his beard and he chokes on the last of it.

Tormund laughs, clapping Jon on his back, then starts to go on and on about Jon’s general madness – starting, of course, with the fact that he’d just drank a whole cup of sour goat’s milk in one go, “The absolute fucking madman, who _does_ that?” – and then going on to talk about how he comes back from the dead and rides dragons and kills Walkers.

Jon pays barely any attention to him, because, as expected, the drink hits him hard and fast and narrows his capability to focus on more than one thing at a time; and that one thing is _definitely_ Sansa. He knows he’s looking his fill, gods, he know his gaze must be heated as it alights on her and stays on her, but he just can’t look away. She’s not wearing a cloak, instead clad only in her beautiful dark blue dress that he can too easily picture undoing along her spine and sliding off her shoulder, following the slowly revealing skin with his mouth –

A large hand claps down on his shoulder, startling him from his foggy thoughts.

Davos stands beside him, a tight smile on his face.

“How’re you doing there, lad?” Davos asks. Around him, Jon realizes there are several more people in the conversation now, all talking amongst each other, Sansa preoccupied by them as well.

“Uhm, I’m g-good,” Jon replies, though it’s slow and sluggish, even to him.

“Good, good,” Davos says, then steps closer to him, lowering his voice. “Now, you aren’t my King anymore so I’m going to loosen my tongue fairly harshly, but it’s in your best interest, alright?”

Jon struggles to understand what Davos is saying, but nods anyway, bringing his cup back to his mouth with a disapproving look from Davos.

“If you want anyone to believe that you’re not in love with your sister but with Daenerys –“ Jon spits his drink out, dribbling from his mouth and back into the cup as his eyes widen at Davos “- then you need to stop making heart eyes at her and go over to the woman you’re _supposed_ to love.”

Even in his state, Jon knows what Davos’ pointed look and titled head is supposed to mean. Jon can’t even deny it. If he tried, he’s not sure what would actually come out of his mouth.

But when he turns his head and meets Daenerys’ cool gaze, Jon knows that he has to do something. He’ll have to go over there.

Jon nods, ignores Davos’ relief, then pushes up from the table to go over and join Daenerys.

He hears a chair scrape behind him. When he looks over his shoulder, he catches sight of Sansa’s retreating figure. Davos gives him another hard look.

Daenerys watches his approach with calculating eyes. Jon deposits himself back into his abandoned chair.

“You’re drunk,” she accuses quickly.

“Tormund made me drink a whole horn of milk,” Jon defends quickly, bristling at her tone.

“ _Milk_?” she repeats. She’s nursing a cup, too, but she seems fairly well put together.

“It’s – there’s . . . goat.”

His innocent bumbling endears her, obviously, because she laughs quietly and leans towards him.

“Your friend seems very . . .” Her voice trails off.

“He’s a big character,” Jon agrees, smiling fondly at the thought of his friend. Daenerys softens a bit more at his expression. She’s mistaken his fondness for Tormund as fondness for _her,_ he realizes.

“I was going to say a bit wild,” Daenerys says, “a little unkempt. He was part of your court?”

“My . . . court?”

“Oh, I forgot that you didn’t have one,” Daenerys says easily. Again, he bristles. Why does everything she say sound like an insult to his home? “You all . . . discussed things together instead.”

“It keeps people happy.” Any giddiness Jon had been riding on is slowly seeping out of him, replaced instead by frustration with Daenerys’ derisiveness.

She senses his turn in mood, and doesn’t say anything more to him, her own good mood turning sour as quickly as it came. Jon doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t _want_ to talk to her, but he knows he should. It’s just . . . what do they even have in common? He remembers, when he was young, Sansa telling him to compliment girls on their names, but she’d not given him much more advice than that – and now, _fuck,_ he’s thinking about Sansa again.

His eyes stray from Daenerys’, trying to seek out the red hair of his cousin-love. She’s against the far wall, talking quietly with yet _another_ man, but all lightheartedness has seeped from her. She glances away from her companion momentarily, eyes sweeping over the room, finally landing on him. Their gazes lock, and everything else burns away. It is just him and her, and the only thing that Jon feels is a sense of longing so deep that it makes his bones ache and his throat burn and his heart constrict until his world begins and ends with her.

Noise drifts back to him as Sansa’s attention is drawn back to the man beside her. Jon blinks, suddenly overwhelmed.

He has to tell her. He can’t go on like this. He has to – he has to tell her, so that she can tell him that his desire disgusts her and that she would never feel that way about him, and perhaps he might be able to move on with his life, if she doesn’t kick him out of Winterfell entirely.

The night of the battle drifts into his mindseye, when he’d pressed a far too daring kiss to the corner of her mouth. She had not only let him do it, but she’d _sighed_ his name in a way that he’d dreamt of while he slept today.

He’s always been a Northern fool, he thinks, as hope unfurls itself in his chest against his will. He’s only going to get his heart broken. Even if Sansa does reciprocate, there are too many barriers standing between them and happiness. Their true relation would have to be revealed, which Jon isn’t entirely sure he wants yet, if at all. The coming wars are a hinder, as well, because he just doesn’t see how he could live through them, and even if they win against Cersei, Daenerys is a whole other matter.

Jon’s eyes move from the Hall and back to Daenerys. She’s pointedly avoiding his eye, sitting stiffly in her chair.

More and more this past week, Jon has felt like a man walking around in a precarious disguise, destined to fall apart at any moment. Looking at Daenerys now, he can’t help but wonder what traits they share. Their cheekbones follow the same slope, he thinks, their lips equally full.

Is that all they share? Common features? Or does her propensity for power run in his veins also?

Too many people know the truth now. At least five, including himself, and Jon won’t even pretend to know who else those who know might have told. Daenerys will find out, sooner rather than later. He will have to tell her, before she learns it on whispers. If she doesn’t hear it from him, she might assume a plot is being hatched against her.

And she wouldn’t entirely be wrong.

More and more time slips by, various Lords coming up to greet him and Daenerys, but Jon makes a point to stay rooted in his chair lest Daenerys sense his absolute unwillingness to spend time with her. The Hall thins out, men leaving with women on their arms, or stumbling out in their drunken stupor.

Jon has stopped drinking, and his head feels significantly less muddled, but he knows his impulse control is still in want because as soon as he catches sight of Sansa taking a seat opposite Sandor fucking Clegane, he rises to his feet.

Daenerys does, as well.

“I think I’d like to retire for the evening,” she tells him pointedly, placing her hand on his arm.

“A wise choice, Your Grace,” he says, eyes still caught on Sansa.

She moves away from him quickly, back straight. When he turns to where she was standing, he can see Varys looking at him with questioning eyes.

Jon hesitates in his quest, but Varys follows his queen out soon enough. Jon immediately makes for Sansa. She doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable with the Hound. Perhaps the opposite. She’d told Jon on a whispered breath once what Clegane had done for her in King’s Landing, how he’d saved her from rioters, but Jon doesn’t see how that could translate into enough intimacy with him that she can speak to him kindly.

Sansa is kind to everyone, though. Jon has seen her kindness directed to him enough times, and to the smallfolk and Lords. He supposes it only makes sense that she can give it to someone who had helped her once, too.

Gods, but would any of these men touch her like Jon would? Would they worship her like he would? Would they deny themselves release in order to make her peak again and again and again like he would?

No. They wouldn’t. They don’t love her like he does.

He catches the end of their conversation.

“No,” Sansa says softly, “the mistake everyone always made, the mistake you made, was to think that all I am is a little bird. The truth is, I’m a wolf. I’ve always been a wolf.”

Jon can’t help the dopey grin that settles on his face as he seats himself beside her. His hand settles on the bench behind her, his arm lined against her back. Discreetly, she moves his arm from around her, pressing her hand into his thigh in warning.

Well, he guesses it’s supposed to be in warning, but her fingers are fanned out enough that Jon’s mind truly goes blank.

His grip catches around her wrist, thumb circling the jut of her wristbone. The pads of his fingers spread out over her palm, then the top of her hand, drawing patterns and redrawing them continuously as Sansa keeps conversation going with the Hound and Jon ignores him entirely, eyes only for Sansa.

The room is fairly empty now, Jon reasons, Daenerys isn’t even here, so how can they compare how he looks at Sansa to how he looks at Daenerys?

It’s a weak excuse, but, at this point, he probably doesn’t even need one.

The Hound disappears soon enough, with a large gulp of drink and a muttered, “Seven Hells, what is it with the highborn and their sisters,” but Jon pays him no mind, even though Sansa blushes furiously at the statement and turns a fierce glare to him.

“Stop it, Jon,” she hisses. She doesn’t pull her hand from his.

“Stop what?” he asks, because he’s genuinely not sure what she’s talking about.

“Stop – stop _looking_ at me like that.” She sounds completely flustered, which only brings a grin to his lips. He likes it when she sounds like that, when _he_ makes her sound like that.

 _Stop looking at you like what,_ he has half a mind to ask, but truthfully he can probably guess. Like he wants to fuck her, wants to marry her, wants to see her belly swell with his child; like he loves her.

“Let me . . . let me take you to bed,” he stumbles out. Her blush deepens, as does his own. “Uh, I mean – I only meant – I’ll _escort_ you - . . .”

She presses a hand to her flushed cheek, finally slipping her fingers from his.

“It is getting rather late,” she agrees quietly. “Oh, um, alright.”

Sansa pushes from the table, and he follows so eagerly that he stumbles.

“I’m – a lil’ drunk,” he mutters to her.

She laughs softly at him. “Yes, I know. Perhaps I’m the one escorting _you_.”

Jon leans on her, slinging his arm around her waist and nuzzling into her like he’s wanted to all night.

“Alright, come on,” she says, pressing her hand into his stomach to hold him up.

She guides him back to his chambers, even though he grunts a protest when she opens his door and not hers, but she ignores him completely and gets him into his bed.

He paws at his clothes, fingers fumbling first with his boots and then his jerkin. She chuckles at his struggles as he pouts at her.

“You could _help_ me,” he grouches.

“No, no, I rather like watching,” she teases.

Jon’s movement’s pause, eyes snapping up to hers. “You like . . . watching me undress?”

Sansa’s cheeks go pink yet again, and she ignores what he’d said in favour of stepping towards him and helping him get ready for bed. Once he’s in his underclothes she turns to dig out his nightclothes, then lays them on the bed beside him.

“I’m sure you can . . . yourself . . . goodnight, Jon.”

She rushes out hurriedly, though with none of the annoyance and detachedness that had marked her exit from his chambers earlier in the day.

Jon has a silly grin on his face as he vests himself of the rest of his clothes and replaces them with the more comfortable nightclothes. His mouth is dry as wool, though, so before he lays down he pads out of his bedchambers and into his solar, looking for some water.

There’s a jug on the table, which he quickly gulps down, then realizes that his bladder is uncomfortably full. He relieves himself in the chamberpot, and as he goes to go back in to his room, he realizes that he left his sword in the Hall.

He should go and get that.

The Halls are empty and cold as he walks through him. He’s _not_ wearing enough clothes for this. There are only serving maids and people cleaning up left in the Hall. They give him odd looks as he walks in, which, understandable, but he ignores them and goes straight for his sword.

He lifts it from where it rests against the high table, remembering the way Sansa’s body had felt as he’d pressed into her.

He never confessed to Sansa that he loves her.

He should _definitely_ go and do that.

Jon hurries back through the halls of Winterfell, cold and determined. He goes straight by his own door before he starts to take a more hesitant pace to Sansa’s room. What if she’s disgusted by him? What if she kicks him out of Winterfell? Oh gods, what if she . . . if she loves him, too? If she invites him in so that she might undress him again, only this time more deliberately.

 _Calm down,_ he tells himself, rolling his eyes as he raises his hand to knock.

He pauses suddenly, the undeniable sound of voices coming from inside. As in, more than one.

Does she have _company_?

Before he can ponder it any further, or perhaps step away from the door, the voices cease and the door pulls open.

 

Arya

The outfit Sansa had made for her turns out to be useless. Arya doesn’t even finish her dinner before she slips out of the Great Hall, suffocated by the tension in the room, and the awe filled stares directed her way. She’d tried to avoid them by sitting at the low tables, but the people recognize her and they _stare._

Arya doesn’t want anyone looking at her.

Instead, she finds herself in the forges, poking through the weapons laid out, some half finished, some just started, but some ready to be used.

She picks up a newly crafted bow and arrow. The string is taut, unused, and she fires a few practice shots to get used to the feel of it. She hits her target all three times, but she misses the bullseye.

No matter. She’s got a feel for it now.

Behind her, she hears quiet footsteps. Well, the person is _attempting_ to be quiet, but his steps are still heavy.

Gendry.

“I thought you were a better shot than that,” he teases.

Arya clenches her jaw, then lets loose her next arrow. It hits the target, straight and true.

“What were all those shots, then?”

“Your bow is badly made,” Arya says, pulling another arrow from the quiver. “It’s hardly my fault.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Gendry says, coming to stand beside her. “I think you might just not be as good as you think you are.”

Arya takes a deep breath and pulls the string, resting the feather of the arrow against her lips. She inhales, then exhales, and in the space between breath’s she releases the string.

It splits the centered arrow, straight down the middle.

Arya turns to Gendry, a cocky smirk on her lips.

“You were saying?”

But Gendry is only looking at her. “Fuck, I love you.”

Arya blanches, taking a step back from him. “Uh, what?”

“Oh, _shit,”_ Gendry curses, eyes widening in panic as he scrambles up from the beam he was leaning against. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Shit, Arya, I’m sorry, I - . . .”

Arya doesn’t know what to say. He . . . loves her? What does that even mean?

She’s . . . she’s fond of him, but _love?_ They’ve spent a lot of time together this week, it’s true, but they’ve hardly relearned so much about each other that he could love her. She hasn’t even told him all the terrible things she’s done since she last parted from him. If he knew the truth, he couldn’t possibly think that he loved her.

Gendry rocks on his feet, face red. “Ah, fuck, Arya, I’m just gonna . . . yeah, I’ll see you later.”

He rubs the back of his head and gives her an awkward wave, then turns to leave.

She doesn’t want him to _leave._

Arya reaches out to grab his elbow and spins him around to face her again. He looks down at her warily, but she can see that he’s hopeful.

Arya doesn’t know what to say. _Love?_ She’s thought herself not fashioned for it for a long time now. When she was younger, romance had always meant a Lord husband, and she’d never entertained the thoughts of being a Lady. She’d never had any desire to be, and as such Arya had never considered having a husband. And Arya still doesn’t want to get married, but if there’s anything she’s learnt over the years it’s that she is so _lonely._ She craves companionship, no matter how much she tells herself that she doesn’t, and maybe love doesn’t have to mean marriage, it can just mean life partner.

Gendry is who she would pick to be her life partner.

She presses the flats of her palms against his chest and pushes up on her toes. He meets her halfway, lips eager against hers, a groan in his throat as his fingers clutch at her hips.

Arya thinks that she need only kiss him like this for a little longer and she would be in love with him, too.

In her mind, an unbidden image of him standing before the open maw of a dragon comes to her mind, Daenerys’ eerily cool voice echoing in her ears and pronouncing Gendry a threat to her claim and executing him with fire for it. Daenerys’ face morphs into the cruel smirk of Cersei’s, who wields the dagger herself as she slits the throat of her late husband’s bastard.

Arya pushes against his chest, breaking apart from him.

She can’t be foolish enough to fall in love. Love is how you get hurt. Love is weakness. It gives your enemies a chance to crawl inside your chest, rip your heart out and crush it inside their fist.

Arya picks her bow and arrow up again in silence. Gendry stays for a moment. She knows he’s watching her, but she doesn’t turn back to him.

She has to kill Cersei. And Daenerys. That’s her mission now.

Quietly, Gendry walks away from her.

 

Arya finds herself in Sansa’s room hours later. Her sister isn’t back yet, but Arya doesn’t mind waiting.

This might be the last time they see each other, after all.

She doesn’t have to wait too long, as it turns out. Sansa arrives to her chambers, her face flushed and a smile on her face.

She startles when she catches sight of Arya waiting for her.

“You scared me,” she scolds gently.

“Did you have a good evening?” Arya asks, flipping her knife in her hand again.

Sansa takes a seat opposite her, smiling again. “I did. Where were you?”

“Around.”

Sansa purses her lips, but doesn’t push.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m leaving,” Arya says, sheathing her dagger.

“ _Leaving?”_ Sansa exclaims, recoiling. “Why?”

“I’m going to kill Cersei.”

Sansa frowns, pressing her hands together. “Arya,” she says, voice serious, and an intimate imitation of their mother, “you don’t need to do this.”

But Arya won’t be talked out of it.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Arya snaps.

Sansa’s eyes close, face scrunching into sorrow. “Arya, please,” she whispers, sounding completely defeated. “Let’s – would you just give me some time? I’ll work something out, I will, but please, Arya, don’t leave.”

Arya sighs heavily, before she can stop herself.

“Look, Sansa, it’s late,” she says, avoiding Sansa’s eye. “I just wanted to tell you.”

“ _Arya,_ ” Sansa stresses, standing up to come and kneel in front of her, “could you just - . . . can we please talk about this tomorrow?”

Arya hesitates. She wasn’t sure she was going to wait until tomorrow to leave.

Sansa seems to pick up on it, because she only looks more distressed.

Arya isn’t sure what to say. She wants to leave as soon as possible. She wants to kill Cersei, wants to finish her list. She can’t stay here anymore, sedentary, not doing anything. Staying still is how you get killed, Arya has learned.

“Aye,” Arya agrees finally. She can grant her that, at least. One more day will not kill her. “We’ll talk about it on the morrow. Go to bed, Sansa.”

Sansa stands to give her forehead a gentle kiss. Arya savours it; is this the last time she might feel something like this? Something like a mother’s kiss upon her brow? The thought gives her more of a pang than she’d anticipated.

She locks it away in her heart, amongst Gendry’s declaration of love, Jon’s “ _Have you ever had to use it?”,_ Bran’s smile now that the Long Night is done; that part of her heart will only stop her from seeking her revenge.

Sansa presses another kiss to her brow, then parts from her, retiring into her bedchambers. Arya pulls the door to the hall open, only to be face to face with Jon, clad in his nightclothes and sword in hand.

He blinks at her, startled, then a delighted grin spreads across his face.

“Little sister!” he greets enthusiastically. She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, but if he notices he doesn’t look it. “Where have you been? The feast was – there was ale, and wine and good food, and Sansa looked very pretty tonight –“

“What are you doing here?” Arya interrupts flatly, before he can say anything else about how _pretty_ Sansa is.

“Uh.” Jon blinks at her again, jaw slack. Arya knows that expression; that’s the expression of a man too drunk to lie.

“Sansa’s retired for the evening,” Arya says, when it’s clear he’s got nothing to say. “You should back to your own rooms.”

“Oh, uhm, alright.”

She takes him by the elbow, then yanks him back towards his rooms, closing Sansa’s behind her as she goes.

Jon hisses, hand settling on his hip. Arya feels faintly guilty for hurting him, and gentles her touch.

“You can’t go to her rooms drunk and late at night,” Arya whispers fervently. “People will talk.”

“They will?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“With the way you look at her?” Arya snaps, in no mood to indulge his unfurling desires. She’s spent considerable time over the past week pondering Jon and Sansa, and Jon’s parentage reveal has clarified a lot of abnormalities for her. “Of course they will.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut, then he says quietly, confused, “You’re the _third_ person tonight to comment on the way I look at her.”

“Seven Hells, Jon, then you better fucking get it together.”

They stop outside his room. Arya raises an unimpressed brow at him, then opens his door and nudges him inside.

“Go to _bed,”_ she commands, then pulls his door closed in his face.

Arya is not even around the corner before Jon has opened his door again, doubling back to Sansa’s room and slipping inside.

 

Sansa

Sansa hears someone stumbling in her solar, then a muffled curse, followed by a knock on her bedchamber door.

It sounds like Jon.

She sighs, a long suffering sigh, but secretly she’s amused, if a little confused on why he’s gotten out of bed just to come see her.

“Jon,” she greets, pulling her door open.

He stands in his nightclothes, wide eyed, hand poised as if he were going to knock again and surprised that she’d actually answered.

His gaze burns intensely as he takes her in, dressed in a woolen nightdress herself, hair undone. She’d just slipped into bed, about to blow out the candle on her nightstand when she’d heard him.

“Were you . . . sleeping?”

She chuckles softly at him. He’s obviously still drunk, though not as completely out of it as he was; no, now he’s just soft around the edges, with no impulse control and a loose tongue.

“No,” she tells him. She pulls the door to her bedchambers closed behind her, then guides him over towards the chairs before the fire. He flops down into one easily. She gets two cups of water, one for him and one for herself, then takes a seat opposite him.

“Come ‘ere,” he says, frowning softly at her, patting the space beside him.

Sansa hesitates. He’s drunk, not in his right mind; she’s not scared of him, not at all, but she is afraid of what he might do to her heart. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if he got close to her tonight, only to regret it in the morning.

“I wanna talk to you.”

She can’t deny his soft, pleading tone, no matter how it might break her heart come morning.

He takes her hand as she sits beside him, fiddling with her fingers and completely enraptured. She tries to keep her breathing even as he does so, but she’s sure that he can hear her thudding heart.

He sighs suddenly, dropping her hand. “About Daenerys . . .”

Sansa shifts away from him, bringing her hand back into her lap, her throat closing up and mouth going dry.

Of course. Of _course_ he wants to talk about Daenerys. Seeing him leave their conversation tonight to go and talk to her . . . gods, Sansa has never thought of herself as a jealous person. Jealousy is a dark emotion, its possessiveness and ownership and Sansa doesn’t think that way about anyone, and certainly not Jon. And yet, there is no other way to describe how sick she’d felt as she’d watched Jon turn his back on her to go and join Daenerys again.

If this is what he’s come to tell her, that he really is going to marry Daenerys, that he’s _attracted_ to her - . . . Sansa doesn’t want to hear it.

She stands before he can say anything else.

“No, wait, wait!” He reaches out again to grasp her hand.

“I don’t want to listen to you talk about her,” Sansa mutters, feebly trying to pull her hand from him.

“No, fuck, Sansa, I wasn’t –“ He sighs in agitation, running a hand over the top of his head. “Gods, I’m fuckin’ it up already.”

His eyes are wide and earnest, like a baby deer, and it absolutely melts her heart. If she couldn’t deny him before, she hates that she can’t deny him now.

Jon’s fingers tangle in her skirts, gently tugging her closer to him.

“I won’t talk about her,” he promises on murmur. “I was just – I didn’t mean to . . . I can tell you without talking about her, I promise.”

 _Tell me what,_ Sansa wants to ask but . . . but she thinks she might already know.

He’s gently petting her skirts, fingertips tracing the embroidered patterns, and the look in his eyes . . . she’s been ignoring it, because she’d thought herself imagining it, but there is no mistaking it, not now.

It’s the way father used to look at mother.

It’s the way Sansa has always wanted to be looked at; and she knows the difference between this and how other men have looked at her.

She thinks she knows what he’s here to say.

Sansa sinks to the ground placing her hands on his knees. “Jon,” she says softly. “I want to know what you have to say.”

He opens his mouth eagerly.

“ _But,_ ” she stresses, pressing down harder on his legs, “not tonight, okay? Not until you’re sober, and you know that you really want to tell me.”

“I do want to tell you,” he pleads, leaning forward slightly, “I want to tell you, please, Sansa, let me.”

Her gaze drops to his parted lips. His hands cup her face gently, and he leans forward again.

“Let me?” he repeats. How does he manage to sound both hopeful and husky at the same time, Sansa wonders through her hazy mind. Gods but she wants to kiss him so badly.

She licks her lips, and he takes that has a sign to continue. He leans forward even more, the tip of his nose touching hers. His breath fans across her face, hot and delightful, but stinking of the ale he’s been drinking.

It brings her sense back.

She leans back slightly.

His hands fall from her face.

“Oh.”

“No, Jon, wait, wait,” she begs desperately, standing to hug him to her stomach. “Just not tonight, okay? Tomorrow. When you wake up on the morrow, I want you to come to me. The first thing you do in the morn. Come to me, alright?”

“Alright,” he says, voice muffled in her stomach. “On the morrow.”

A knock at the door startles Sansa. It must be Arya again, Sansa reasons. Who else could possibly be coming to her chambers so late at night, and after such a raucous feast at that?

“Stay here,” Sansa instructs softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

She pulls the door open, then immediately steps into the small gap, closing the room off from view.

“Your Grace.”

What is she _doing_ here? Sansa had seen her retire earlier in the evening. Why does she keep coming here? This is, what, the third time, fourth time that she’s come here, looking for Jon?

Daenerys must have realized by now that he’s either not there, or Sansa is lying, and, truly, Sansa doesn’t understand why Daenerys has made herself seem so desperate for Jon.

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys greets coolly. She looks tired, but not drunk, still wearing her dress from the evening, though her braids are undone. “I was looking for –“

“I put him to bed earlier,” Sansa interrupts.

Daenerys purses her lips, staring at Sansa with loathing. Sansa recognizes that look. She’s seen it from many men and women before. From the cunning like Cersei, or the outwitted like Lysa, or the deranged like Ramsey, it matters not; those people were smart, and though they might have hated Sansa, they also knew her value. They knew they couldn’t kill her, even if they may have wielded the power to do so.

Sometimes, Sansa thinks that Daenerys knows no such thing. That she believes Sansa to be expendable. Sansa doesn’t fear death, not anymore, not from people like Daenerys. But she does fear for her family, and the North.

“He didn’t answer the door.” There’s a forced calmness to her voice, but Sansa isn’t fooled.

“He’s probably asleep.”

 _If he was going to come to your chambers,_ Sansa thinks venomously, _he would have by now. But he came to mine instead._

Daenerys rolls her tongue between her teeth with impatience.

“If you see him before I get a chance to,” she says, voice hard, “then tell him that _his queen_ demands his presence.”

“If I see him before you,” Sansa agrees easily. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”

Daenerys obviously isn’t used to being dismissed, because she stays standing there for moment. Sansa wouldn’t dare close the door in her face, not after provoking her. Daenerys leaves eventually, however. Sansa shakes her head and rolls her eyes as she closes the door.

When she turns back around, Jon has disappeared and her bedchamber doors are open. How did he manage to do that so quietly?

Sansa goes in hesitantly, already wondering how she’s going to get him out of there.

He’s laying in the middle of her bed, atop the furs, hands clasped over his belly and looking up at the ceiling forlornly. She stops by the edge of the bed, looking down at him.

“What are you doing?”

He tilts his head slightly towards her and sighs heavily.

“Thinking about all the ways Father would be disappointed in me.”

Sansa purses her lips, then takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Oh? Tell me what they are.”

“I’m a liar,” he says immediately. “I lied to Daenerys and told her I loved her, so that I could get her to come North and do what I needed her to do.”

“That was for the good of the realm, Jon,” Sansa points out.

“I lied to Ygritte. I tricked her, too.”

Sansa doesn’t know much about his time with Ygritte. He’d told her the broad strokes, the important things, so she knows that Jon had lied to her to infiltrate the Wildings. She knows that he loved her. But Jon, just like her, has secrets that he keeps close to his heart.

He quiets, obviously upset, then adds another point. “I’m going to help a Targaryen reconquer Westeros.”

“You won’t,” Sansa says, disagreeing with this, too. “I’ll figure something out.”

“If I have to kill her . . .”

Sansa’s breathing stops. She didn’t know that he’d been considering doing that.

“I’d be a Kinslayer. Queenslayer. Oathbreaker.”

“We won’t let it get that far, Jon.”

“Who else could do it?” he asks bitterly. “Who else could get close enough to her?”

Sansa hasn’t figured out exactly what to do yet, but she’s sure that she won’t let that happen.

“You know,” Sansa says easily, leaning back to brace her hand against the bed, looking down at him. He looks up to her with sad eyes. “Father sacrificed his honour for his family. He lied to us all for years. Everyone believed that he’d strayed from his marriage bed, and dishonoured mother. He may not have dishonoured her in the way everyone thought, but, truthfully, he still did. He hid the biggest secret in Westeros.”

Jon’s hooked on her every word, eyes gazing intently up at her.

“Would he truly be so disappointed in you, Jon, for lying to protect people? To protect those you love?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long while. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “And what about the other thing? The think I’m gonna tell you tomorrow. Would he be disappointed in me for that?”

Sansa can’t help the small gasp of air that scrapes from her throat at that.

Jon’s eyes are hooded, a hopefulness about his general demeanor, though a fear deep in his eyes that Sansa knows stems from his desire to finally find his place in the world.

“One of the last things that father and I spoke about, before everything turned so terrible,” Sansa says slowly, fingers clenching in the furs, “was that he wanted to find a match for me with a man who was brave, gentle, and strong. I know of no other man who fits that description better than you, Jon.”

He doesn’t agree, not truly, but he so badly wants to that he sinks further into the bed in relief.

“Will you stay with me?” he mumbles, hands fanning out over the furs, eyes closed.

“You’re in _my_ bed, Jon,” Sansa says, trying not to laugh.

“Oh. Then can I stay with you?”

Sansa pauses, then quietly says, “It’s probably not a good idea, Jon.”

“Mm,” he hums, “probably not.”

He doesn’t move, however, instead turning on to his side to bury his face into her pillows.

She shouldn’t stay, Sansa decides. She should go to Arya’s room instead, and make sure that people know she didn’t stay in here with Jon. It’s too dangerous to stay in here with him, she reasons.

Oh, fuck reason.

If he’s going to tell her what she thinks he’s going to, well, then, she intends to marry him soon anyway. And if he _doesn’t_. . . then what’s the problem with siblings sharing a bed, anyway? She’d do it with Bran.

Sansa stands, pulling the covers from her side of the bed.

Jon’s eye pops open, watching her for a moment. Then he rolls over, so that she can pulls the covers away further, and slip underneath.

“D’you want . . . I’ll stay on top of the furs?” Jon asks, voice quiet and mumbled and slurred from tiredness.

Sansa’s ponders it for a moment. It might be uncomfortable if he were to get under with her, but then, when she’d woken up this morning, his arm around her waist and nose nuzzled into her hair, she hadn’t much minded. She actually rather . . . liked it.

“No,” she decides, “you can get underneath.”

Eyes kept closed, Jon slowly maneuvers himself underneath, hissing when his cuts pull too hard.

Finally, he settles, facing towards her. Sansa keeps her eyes open, tracing the lines of his face with her gaze. The stress lines on his face are smoothed out in his drunken peace, and even though he’s not asleep, he certainly looks like the pressures of the outside world have melted away from him.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Jon mumbles, opening one eye.

Sansa hastily closes her eyes, though her lips threaten to pull into a smile and he must be able to tell. She hears his arm shift, and her breath catches in her throat as she feels his fingers softly brush over her brow bone.

“So pretty,” he whispers.

She can’t the smile that spreads this time. It prompts his hand to drop, so he can trace the outline of her smiling lips.

“Mmm,” he hums, “I love your smile.”

“I love yours, too.”

She doesn’t dare open her eyes, for fear of what she might say, or might let him say. His hand falls away too quickly – though _forever_ still feels like it wouldn’t be enough time – and his breathing evens out soon after.

Sansa expects it to take a long time to fall asleep, but consciousness falls away quickly, leaving her with a mix of peaceful dreams in which Jon presses lazy and sweet kisses to her from when the sun rises to when the sun sets, and with terrible nightmares in which Arya disappears with a cruel smile on her face and Cersei’s blood covering her head to toe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao so firstly that gendrya? heartbreaking. but never fear. happy ending, remember? 
> 
> secondly, sorry to dangle jonsa in front of you and take it away just as easily. its coming i promiseeeeee


	5. The Last of the Starks Pt II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahah what even is consistent chapter length. lmao enjoy this 20k sucker. on the topic of word count - i have no reason to believe that the next chapters will be any shorter, so if they're approaching long length (e.g. like the last couple chaps), would you prefer i split the last chapters, like i've done these? or just post them all in one go? bearing in mind that the longer they are, the longer i'll take to write them. 
> 
> this chap is a wild mix of nonsensical wish fulfilment and also things that i legit cannot believe we didn't see in canon. so like enjoy??? she be both plot heavy and also just like bs haha.

Jon

Jon wanders through the halls of Winterfell, unsure if he’s trying to find Sansa or not.

He’s sure he has something to tell her. He’d woken up in her bed, hard and aching and with the distinct feeling that he has to tell her something, but she hadn’t been there, and he doesn’t know what he had to tell her.

He doesn’t remember much from the night before at all, really. Certainly not much after he’d had that drink from Tormund. But he’s got fuzzy memories of Sansa beaming at up him, of her hair braided and her blue dress and twinges of jealousy as other men had come to talk to her, so he’s fairly sure he was looking at her quite a bit.

In any case, Jon has an inkling as to what he would have wanted to tell Sansa last night, which is why he doesn’t know if he’s really looking for her. Because if she’d wanted him to tell her, she would have been there when he woke up in her bed.

Jon also vaguely remembers Daenerys’ ire, but that’s nothing new. He needs to speak with her today, to find out specifically what he did last night that has created her frustration so that he can start to go about assuaging her. His purpose now is not to make her stay to fight, but to make sure she doesn’t hurt anybody. Making her angry will certainly not help him in that, so he needs to move quickly, he knows.

Fuck. Shit, fuck, fuck, he needs to go and talk to Daenerys.

He _wants_ to talk to Sansa, he thinks, though with that goal comes a roil of anxiety, but talking or not talking to Sansa will not bring about war and death.

It may just be that dire with Daenerys.

Jon pauses in the hall and leans his back against it, closing his eyes in an effort to steel himself. Why has it been so much harder here? He pulled off this devoted charade for _months_ on Dragonstone. He’s been back in Winterfell for just shy of a fortnight, and already the lie he’d spent so long building is crumbling faster than he can rush between his family and Daenerys. It’s his own fault, he’s painfully aware. It’s his own distraction that has caused such a strain between he and Daenerys. One of the first things he’d come to realize about her is that she expects complete devotion, to the exclusion of all else.

She may have been able to stand his distraction for a brief time when they first arrived, but only if she thought it a simple flight of his fancy, if she thought his attention would come back to her. But it hasn’t, not yet, and truthfully he has no desire to focus his attention on her entirely, but he must.

This isn’t about him.

He’s been selfish these past days, manipulating Daenerys to get her here and then completely abandoning her once they’d arrived.

He has to stop being so fanciful and focus on what needs to be done.

Jon open his eyes, determined. Daenerys is probably in her rooms, talking with her advisors. It’s past time to break fast, and he doubts she’ll be taking any interest in the happenings of Winterfell or the intricacies of ruling the North.

Cold wind whips through the halls as he makes his way from the main castle and to the guest houses. While the damage wrought by Viserion has let the air outside into the castle, Jon knows that it’s not as bad as it could have been. It will take weeks to fix, gold that he and Sansa will have to scramble to find, but it truly could have been devastating. Jon will have to thank Bran.

Outside the door to her chambers, Jon takes one more deep breath, then raises his hand to knock before he can think better of it. He waits several moments, but hears no movement from inside. Brow furrowed, he knocks again, louder.

This time the door pulls open, but it isn’t Daenerys nor any of her advisors who answer. Jon recognizes the woman as a serving girl from Winterfell, but he’s not sure of her name.

She dips into a curtsey, head bowed. “My Lord,” she murmurs.

“Good morning,” he greets, hands clasped in front of him. “I’m seeking an audience with the Queen.”

“The Queen isn’t here, my Lord,” she replies. Jon lifts his gaze from her face to look over her shoulder and into the solar behind her. There are a few other serving girls in the room, looking curiously at him as they go about their work in the room.

“Oh,” Jon says, genuinely surprised. “Do you know where I might find her?”

The girl looks over her shoulder at someone he can’t see. For a moment Jon wonders if Daenerys is actually here and is barring him from entering. Gods, he hopes he didn’t fuck up so badly last night that that might actually be the case.

But it isn’t Daenerys that appears, but Missandei.

“My Lord,” she greets, “the Queen has called for a war council. You didn’t know?”

“A war council?” Jon repeats, alarm swelling in him quickly. Daenerys had called a war council and he’d not been invited? “Without me?”

Missandei looks as confused as he feels – and perhaps just as alarmed.

“The Queen mentioned finding you this morn,” Missandei says. She looks over her shoulder, at the serving maids who are now more openly staring at them. Jon is not too worried; they probably answer to Sansa. Missandei must think the same, because she steps out of them room and gently pulls the door closed. “I don’t know that she would really have the council without you. Perhaps they’re waiting for you.”

If he’d not been invited, Jon doubts they’re waiting for him. But he’s more than happy for Missandei to lead him there. He needs to know _exactly_ what’s going on.

They both fall into a tense silence as they walk. Missandei is tentatively leading him, because he hasn’t bothered to ask where they’re actually holding the war council, but as they walk it becomes clearer and clearer that they’re just going to the war room.

As they close in on the door, Jon says, “I’m surprised you’re not in there, either.”

Missandei glances over at him, a crease between her brows. “Why would I be?”

Jon looks over to her, wondering what he can and can’t say to her. Missandei has proven herself extremely faithful to the Queen in the women’s history together, Jon knows. And when he arrived on Dragonstone, he saw nothing to disprove blind devotion from Missandei to Daenerys. Missandei is human, however, and has lived her whole life in chains. Jon thinks that she must at some point have started to suspect she was not as free as Daenerys claimed she was, but perhaps with knowing no other life Missandei might truly think this freedom.

“I suppose I just thought you were one of her advisors,” Jon says, the door in sight. His attention on the conversation wanes, his anxiety taking hold of him.

“I am,” Missandei quickly says.

With distraction, Jon says, “And Daenerys hasn’t invited you?”

“I’m sure she has a reason,” Missandei replies, annoyance lacing her tone now.

It brings his attention back to her. Her gives her an apologetic smile. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward. Would you like to come in with me, then?”

They pause in front of the door. Jon looks down at her expectantly. He’s not sure what he expects, but he’s still disappointed when Missandei shakes her head. “No, my Lord, I’m sure the Queen has chosen her advisors on this subject well.”

If she now has second thoughts on escorting him here, she doesn’t show it.

He gives her a nod of dismissal. Missandei gives him a weary nod for his efforts, then turns down to go back from whence she came.

Jon turns to the door, then takes a fortifying breath and knocks hastily.

It’s pulled open only a moment later by Varys, who looks rather stressed, deep lines etched into his face. His expression doesn’t ease when he see’s Jon, but it doesn’t worsen, either. Varys pulls the door open for Jon silently, letting him in.

The room is quiet as he comes in, but with tangible tension.

Daenerys and her advisors are on one side; Varys takes his place alongside Tyrion and Grey Worm. Davos and Brienne are on one side of the table, Sansa and Arya on the other.

Jon avoids everyone’s eye as he walks in, though he keeps his head high. He takes a neutral place, on a side of the table that no one else is on, between his family and Daenerys.

“Good of you to finally join us, Lord Snow,” Daenerys says coolly. He glances up at her quickly – she’s staring at him with an icy gaze. It’s not outright hostile, but it certainly isn’t friendly – and then back down to the table. “You would have been made aware earlier, of course, but no one knew where you were.”

Jon swallows harshly, throat dry.

Gods, what the _fuck_ had he been thinking, going looking for her? He’s too hungover for this _shit,_ and, what’s worse is that this meeting might just decide the fate of Westeros. It’s extremely important, and he’s hungover and emotionally confused and walking on thin ice with Daenerys and it could just not be a worse combination.

But it isn’t about him.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he says modestly, bowing his head in subservience. He turns his back slightly to his family, because he knows Daenerys will like that. He doesn’t offer an excuse, even though he has one if she asks.

She doesn’t.

Jon takes a moment to analyze the table before the conversation picks back up. The pieces of the army have been shifted considerably since he was last in here, when they were preparing for the Long Night. The Dothraki are gone completely, and the Unsullied are severely diminished, as are the Northmen. Fresh pieces have been added in the south of Westeros, pieces that signify the Lannister army, the Golden Company and Euron’s Iron Fleet. Yara’s fleet has been added, too, at the Iron Islands, but the last Jon had heard was from Theon last week, when he’d said that Yara had _intended_ to take the Islands back. Does Daenerys know something he doesn’t, or is she just assuming?

“As I was saying,” Daenerys says, impatience clear on her face and in her voice, “Grey Worm tells me that the sickness passing through the Unsullied is from the cold.”

“It happens often, Your Grace,” Sansa replies tightly, “especially when men stay in such close quarters. They just need to keep warm, get some rest, and make sure they eat to keep up their energy.”

“And how do you propose they _keep warm,_ Lady Sansa?” Daenerys retorts. “You’ve barely provided anything to keep the men warm, and, please, spare me the instructions on keeping them fed. Do you even have any food stored?”

Jon has to go to a great deal of effort to close his mouth at such blatant disrespect. It’s such an inflammatory comment that Jon can’t think of a single thing to say.

Varys and Tyrion look extremely concerned with what she’s said, though as shocked as he is, if their silence is anything to go by.

Jon doesn’t turn to see Sansa’s reaction, but, really, he doesn’t have to. He can easily imagine exactly the type of fury that Daenerys’ provocation will have stoked; Sansa can keep her calm through many insults, but the implication that she can’t care for her people is not one.

Rather recklessly, in Jon’s opinion, Daenerys continues, “You knew we were coming. Why didn’t you organize more food?”  

Jon hears Sansa quietly cluck her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and then, in the most saccharine tone he’s ever heard from her, she says, “I tried to, of course, but as I’m sure you’re well aware, the majority of Westerosi grain comes from the Reach. My understanding is that this year’s harvest was burnt.”

“ _Burnt?”_ Daenerys demands. “What could possibly have –“

Daenerys voice trails off as she, like everyone else in the room, comes to the same conclusion.

She’d faced the Lannister army as it marched from the Reach and back to King’s Landing. She’d killed Sam’s father and brother there. Jon has learnt from Sansa who’d learnt from Jaime that she’d done more than just that; she’d decimated not only the army, but everything it carried with it, too.

Jon doesn’t know what to do, or where to look. He’s sure that this is something that he must mediate, that he must stop now, so he says, in an attempt to be diplomatic, “Everyone is getting the same portions. Winter forces rationing on us all, Your Grace.”

Daenerys seems eager to take the out he has so easily provided.

“In any case,” she says, grasping desperately for composure, “I propose that we turn our armies south as soon as possible. That will alleviate some of the strain on your resources, as well, Lady Sansa.”

Daenerys says this last part awkwardly, aware, now, that she’s monumentally fucked up by being so aggressive.

Jon takes a second to look around the room, to see people’s reactions to the information Sansa had shared. Tyrion had been at the Reach with Daenerys, so he doesn’t look particularly surprised at the revelation, though he certainly looks extremely uncomfortable. Varys didn’t know, Jon concludes, if the way he’s glaring at the table is any indication, and even Grey Worm looks upset by the news.

“How soon, Your Grace?” Tyrion asks, finding his voice again, as well reaching for the opportunity to alleviate the tension.

Jon doesn’t dare turn towards Sansa to see how she feels. He wouldn’t even be able to be upset with her for being satisfied with herself; Daenerys had tried to play a dangerous game by blaming Sansa for her forces sickness, for their lack of food, and she’d chosen to play it with the wrong person, because not only is Sansa smarter than Daenerys, she’s also right.

Daenerys looks down at the table, eyes sweeping over the pieces. “By the end of the week.”

Even though Jon had known this from Bran, he still can’t help the jolt of shock that passes through him. He genuinely doesn’t understand how this could seem like a good idea to her; the only thing he can think of is that she mustn’t realize how difficult it is to mobolize an entire army across the continent.

Tyrion and Varys look just as startled, and even Grey Worm has looked up from the map to stare at Daenerys with something like surprise.

“The men need rest, Your Grace,” Sansa opposes coolly.

Jon’s back stiffens. He’d planned to make his stand against Daenerys’ mobilization alone, because that way she’d feel less like she was being cornered.

Daenerys purses her lips, letting her anger leak out of her voice when she says, “And how long do you propose I wait?”

“I couldn’t be sure, not without talking to the officers,” Sansa replies smoothly.

The wood under his feet creaks as Jon finally turns to look at Sansa. He’s glaring, he knows, but so is she.

Seven hells, how is he supposed to protect her when she goes and provokes Daenerys like this?

“I came North at great risk and detriment to my own armies, and now you want to postpone?”

 _Please,_ Jon pleads to Sansa with his eyes, _please, let me handle this._

“You came North because you love Jon,” Sansa replies anyway, avoiding looking at him. Jon closes his eyes in disbelief. Fuck. _Fuck._ “You said it to me yourself – you came to fight ‘Jon’s War’.”

“It doesn’t matter if that’s true,” Daenerys snaps, any composure she still held abandoning her. “I did you a favour by coming here, to help you fight. I lost my Dothraki, and a dragon to save you.”

“To save us _all,_ I think you mean,” Sansa rebukes. Jon’s eyes open, locking on Sansa once more.

What is she doing? Why is she saying this? What could she possibly hope to gain right now? The rest of the room stands completely still, terrified to move an inch for fear of being the thing that finally sets Daenerys off.

“Your argument presupposes that your fight for the Throne is more important than you saving your so-called people,” Sansa says, with almost boredom, like she already knows exactly what to say to give the most damage. Jon thinks that that is true, but he has no idea who it is she’s aiming this at. “So which is it, Your Grace? Are you here to help the people you want to rule? Or because you want to endear Jon to you?”

When Jon turns away from Sansa, he gets the opportunity to take in the other side of the room. Varys looks pensive, though maybe like all his worst fears are being confirmed true, while Tyrion is gazing up at Daenerys with a shocked confusion.

Davos stares down at the table, obviously having no idea what to do, but it is Grey Worm who Jon is the most intrigued by. His jaw is clenched, eyes hard, but it is not at Sansa that this fury is directed; it is to Daenerys herself.

Daenerys runs her tongue across her bottom lip harshly, her fingers rubbing over her palms uncontrollably. He knows that these are signs that she is truly about to unleash her anger.

“And what does the Warden in the North think?” Daenerys demands.

Jon freezes under her gaze, unable to prevent the instinct that drives fear through his heart as she turns to him.

It takes a great deal of effort to relax himself, to take a breath and think of Bran telling him to wait no more than fortnight, but to wait all the same.

“They need only a week longer than you propose, my queen.”

It isn’t good enough.

Eyes looked on his and voice cold, Daenerys orders, “Everybody out. _Now.”_

The room stays still for a moment, everyone caught in their fear and the tension, but it takes only Daenerys sweeping her eyes over everyone for them to move into action. Sansa hesitates the most, as Jon knew she would, but he turns pleading eyes to her and finally she takes his cue and leaves him. She wants to stay, he knows, but even she understands that anything she does right now will only end badly.

When the room is empty bar the two of them, Daenerys lets silence reign. Her stare is cold upon him, making his skin prick and the hair at the nape of his neck stand. It’s enough to make him lower his eyes, much to his own chagrin. It’s probably for the best, in any case. Daenerys always wants subservience.

“Come with me.”

Like an obedient lap dog, he does as she says. It’s his only chance, now; to follow all of her instructions and not argue. It will be the only way he can prove himself loyal to her – because loyalty, to Daenerys, is quiet compliance and little objection to her plans.

Daenerys leads him outside, through the courtyard and to the stables. He follows her lead and mounts a horse, and she takes him outside the hunter’s gate, the opposite direction of Wintertown and the tents being resurrected after the battle.

To the dragons.

The last time they’d come here, it had been because Daenerys was concerned about how little the dragons had been eating. He wonders, idly, whether they would eat him, what with his dragonblood.

Daenerys dismounts, and Jon follows.

Drogon’s head lifts as they approach, rousing Rhaegal from where he slumbers. Jon has absolutely no connection to Drogon at all, though he gets the feeling that he doesn’t like him. Rhaegal, on the other hand, Jon can almost feel relax as he gets closer. This instinct is proved correct when Rhaegal lowers his head and tucks it back into his wing, going back to sleep.

“I know the reason I can never find you is because you’re in Sansa’s chambers.”

Maybe they’re here so she can feed him to Drogon, after all.

“That’s not true,” Jon lies. “I don’t spend any time there. It would be inappropriate.”

Daenerys doesn’t look at him, instead gazing up at Drogon fondly. She walks closer to her dragon, her child, and reaches a hand out, petting it over his snout. He huffs, smoke rising from his nostrils, and almost nuzzles into her hand.

“Does she have dragons, Jon?” Daenerys asks him, an almost affection in her tone. Affection to her dragons, and how special they make her, he’s sure. “Can Sansa Stark do what I can do?”

Jon tries to mimic her tone, softening his inflection in the same way she does when he says, “She’s nothing like you.”

Which is the truth. Sansa has more kindness and more compassion in her little finger than Daenerys does in her whole body; she may not wield unconditional power in the same way Daenerys does, but she has her own kind of power.

“No. She isn’t.”

Jon can’t help but get the feeling that she’s picturing Sansa’s death, or, at the very least, is actively threatening her.

He stays quiet, unsure what to say. Nothing is probably best. He’s too scared to lie right now, but the truth will only get him in trouble.

“You are either with me or against me, Jon Snow,” Daenerys says, turning from Drogon to stare at him. The anger that had strained her jaw and tainted her eyes has disappeared in the presence of her dragons, of the soothing effect they have on her. He’s seen this before, only recently, when they’d rode into Winterfell together. When the smallfolk’s reception of her had angered her, until her dragon’s roar had made her smile. “You are either coming now, or you aren’t coming at all.”

The threat makes a mixture of fear and anger boil up in him. He’s suffered so immensely at her hands. He’s weathered imprisonment and harsh demands, and he’s taken every indignity that she has thrown at him. He will take this threat, too, because it’s his own fault – he should have tried harder to placate her since they’ve been in Winterfell, and he shouldn’t have let his feelings for Sansa overcome him as thoroughly as they have.

So he will take it, and hide his true feelings, his true panic, his true frustration, his true rage.

Next to him, Rhaegal shifts, shoulders shaking as he rears up, a growl rumbling in his chest.

Seven hells, even Rhaegal is turning on him.

Daenerys’ face pinches down into a hard stare, and then her mouth drops open in fury as Rhaegal does the exact opposite to turn on Jon: he sits back on his haunches and roars into the sky, then plants his paws on either side of Jon and curls his neck around him protectively.

Holy _fuck._

Jon is absolutely taken aback by such a declaration of allegiance to him. He openly gapes at the dragon for a moment, overcome by a rush of – well, not _affection,_ per se, but gratitude, certainly.

“ _Rhaegal,”_ Daenerys snaps, a clear command.

Drogon squares himself behind Daenerys, a growl starting to rumble in his chest, and suddenly Jon can see what future this will bring; a second Dance of Dragons, Winterfell and the North the playground under which the last Targaryen’s fight to the death. The realm barely recovered after the last Dance, the Targaryen’s even less so – Jon has no desire to see a Targaryen restoration be borne from this, but he has even less desire to see the North melt under dragonfire.

But Daenerys doesn’t know that he’s a Targaryen. Or, at least, she doesn’t know for sure. After such an act from Rhaegal, she will certainly come to suspect that something is amiss. She need only ask Varys to find out the truth, and Jon has no doubt that his secret will be learned by the time Daenerys marches south, likely leaving Winterfell razed behind her.

He will have to tell her. He’d thought as much before, but now, with her dragon’s changed allegiance, he has no doubt she will find out, one way or another. But he has stumbled through bad decision after bad decision recently, when he’d tried to make them himself over and over. He won’t be able to protect anyone if he doesn’t learn from his mistakes; and his mistakes, recently, have come from the fact that he’s tried to shoulder the burden himself. He needs to include his family in these decisions. And if he can get out of this situation without telling Daenerys, then he owes it to them to do so.

“Dany,” he says, hands held out and palms facing towards her. She’s looking up to Rhaegal, clearly confused and grappling with this shift in dynamic. He repeats the nickname, and she looks down to him. There’s no anger, still just an overwhelmed confusion, so he takes the opportunity to be diplomatic. “Please. I’m with you, I _am._ I intend to march south by your side, to take the capital in your name. But, please, everyone needs rest. As much time as you can give them.”

She steps out of the direct circle of Drogon’s paw, so Jon does the same.

They meet in the space between their dragons.

“You said earlier that they need another week,” Daenerys says slowly, pursing her lips. “I can give them that.”

Jon can’t help his sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dany.”

His gratitude pleases her. She flattens her hands against his chest, and he lets her, even though he has no desire to restart their intimate relationship.

“And what of us?” she asks.

Jon runs his tongue over the back of his teeth, trying not to clench his jaw or let any unease show on his face.

“What do you want of me?” he asks finally. He doesn’t settle his hands against her hips, leaving his arms hanging limply by his side. That feels like too much for him to handle right now.

“I want everything of you,” she replies easily. “I always have. But am I too late? Has your pretty sister tempted you from my bed and into hers?”

Panic doesn’t flare in him, like he expected it would. Instead, all emotion within him dulls, his body seems to go numb, and he falls so easily back into the role he had perfected while away. His soul had clawed it’s way from the mold he had locked it in as soon as they stepped into the walls of Winterfell, as soon as he’d caught sight of Sansa.

But now, standing before her, it’s like everything he is, every facet of his personality, every decision he’s ever made, every desire he’s ever had, is sucked so tightly inside him that he becomes just a shell of a person.

It would be all too easy to tell her what she wants to hear, to do what he’s learnt to do so well and lie by telling the truth, to practically betroth himself to her in his efforts to bring stability to the realm, to keep the North safe.

Telling her he would marry her will not endanger anyone else’s lives, not like his parentage reveal would. But it would add just another oath to an already large pile of oaths that he intends to break. The first oath he’d made in his second life is the one he intends to keep, above all others: _I’ll protect you. I promise._

Any made after and in contradiction to that are those he either will not keep, or will not keep in the way he had made it seem.

But oathbreaking is a sin he has tried so desperately to avoid his entire life. And while he has thus made oaths he will break, he has not broken them yet. That part of his soul is still intact, if only barely. Perhaps it is selfish, but he wants to keep it that way for as long as possible. So if he can appease Daenerys right now without adding any more false promises, he will.

“No,” he replies, hoarsely. “No, Daenerys. She’s my _sister._ And you are my queen.”

Her eyes sweep over his face, obviously unconvinced. “That isn’t enough, Jon. Is that all I am to you? Your queen?”

Oh, he should have known. _He should have known._

“I –“ The words fail him for a moment.

“I see.” Daenerys goes to retreat from him, fingers slipping from the fur of his cloak as she says venomously, “Perhaps I should visit the Lady Sansa and share my –“

Jon grips her elbows tightly, pulling her body back to his.

“I would have you take me as your husband.”

A satisfied smile pulls her lips upwards, and dread strikes through his heart. What a fool he is.

Daenerys grips his chin in her hand, tilting his head down so she can stare directly into his eyes.

“Yes,” she says. “You would.”

Daenerys leans upwards so she can press her lips to his. He lets her, because he has no choice now. She knows. She knows that he isn’t in love with her, like he’d claimed. She probably knows he loves Sansa. And she’s used it to manipulate him into proposing to her.

 _Gods forgive me,_ he thinks, finally putting his hands on her waist, because maybe he can give her enough affection to make her doubt the truth. _Sansa, forgive me._

Behind him, Rhaegal roars into the sky, perhaps feeling Jon’s torment as his own.

Daenerys breaks from him, then presses her cheek to his so her lips touch his ear.

“When you go to the Lady Sansa’s chambers tonight,” she whispers, and Jon’s eyes fall shut in his defeat, “and I know you will, Jon Snow. When you go, after you fuck your sister in your shared father’s bed, I want you to look in her eyes and I want you to tell her that Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, _always_ gets what she wants.”

 

Sansa

Sansa spends the rest of the day in a state of numbed terror.

She’d heard that Daenerys had come back through the gates on her own, and an hour later she’d received word that Jon had returned, too, and that he’d retreated down to the crypts, but when she seeks him out he isn’t there.

He doesn’t come to supper, and when Sansa glances from Jon’s empty seat to Daenerys, the Dragon Queen gives Sansa such a chilling smile that she waits only a few minutes more to politely excuse herself from the Hall.

Sansa rushes through the halls of Winterfell, trying to find him. He isn’t in his chambers, nor hers, and on a mad whim she tries his childhood rooms, but he isn’t there either. She retraces her steps to the crypts, and asks Sam and Wolkan in the Maester’s room, enquires after him to Arya and Gendry in the forge, and even goes to the stables to check that he actually _had_ returned.

No one has seen him, and with each empty room Sansa feels more and more like she’s going to throw up.

Bran. She needs to find Bran.

Boots thudding heavily as she rushes to the godswood, Sansa refuses to think on the possibility that Daenerys has hurt him. She isn’t sure what she’ll do if something has happened to him.

Bran sits before the Heart Tree, the bowl of broth she’d had sent out for him sitting empty in his lap.

“He’s alright,” Bran says as Sansa comes to a stop before him.

She’s breathes out her relief, kneeling before her brother.

“Where can I find him?”

“He doesn’t want to be found.”

“I don’t care,” she snaps. “ _Tell me.”_

Bran looks from her frantic face and back to the Heart Tree, letting silence fall around them again.

“Fine,” she bites, rising to her feet, “I’ll find him myself.”

She turns from Bran, reassured that Jon is okay, but angry that Bran had not told her where to find him.

“Sansa.”

Sansa pauses in her departure, swaying on her feet.

“You’re letting your emotions get the better of you,” Bran warns. Wearily, she turns around to him. “Daenerys knows you’re smarter than she is, and she grows scared of the Throne slipping through her fingers. But she’s found something that she can use to bend you and Jon into submission, and she will use it.”

Sansa daren’t ask what that thing is, but she can take a guess. There is only one thing in the entire world that Sansa will not sacrifice for anything, and that is Jon.

Daenerys will use them both to manipulate the other.

Sansa knows that she and Jon have not been as careful with their affections as they should have been. Gods, he slept in her _chambers_ last night. He was all over her at the feast. Anyone with two eyes had made some kind of sly comment last night, and Sansa has no reason to think that Daenerys would have noticed no less than anyone else.

“I know she will.”

Sansa turns from her brother again, a newfound determination in her.

“He’s in the Broken Tower.”

Sansa mumbles her gratitude over her shoulder, and then rushes back from where she came, immediately going to seek him out.

 

Sansa winds up the stairs of the tower, fingers dancing over the dusty stone as her breath hitches in her hurry. She reaches the top, the same room she had lit her candle in, praying for Brienne to rescue her, and pushes the partly closed door completely open.

Jon turns from where he stands, looking out over the icy Wolfswood.

Sansa rushes toward him, flinging her body against his and folding him into her tight embrace.

“I was so worried,” she gasps into his temple. “Gods, Jon, I thought that she’d – please, don’t disappear like that again, I was so scared.”

She stays standing against him, relieved, until she realizes that he’s not wrapping his arms about her waist like usual. He stands still against her, though his head rests in the crook of her neck, his breathing hot and ragged against her skin.

“Jon?” she whispers, pulling back from him. She tilts his head up, palm under his jaw and thumb sweeping across his cheek as she realizes he’s been crying. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“I’ve agreed to marry her,” he croaks out, eyes closed and face pulled down in anguish.

Sansa’s heart simultaneously sinks in her chest and starts to beat faster.

_Marry her? But then he’ll leave, and I might never see him again._

“She knows I don’t love her,” he continues, pulling his face from her grasp. “And if I don’t marry her, I think she’ll kill you.”

“I don’t care,” Sansa stumbles out, before she can think better of it – it’s the truth, her truth, as she would rather die than see Jon subjected to the same fate that she had been twice over, but he obviously doesn’t feel the same way.

“ _I_ care, Sansa,” he says sharply, turning from her.

She huffs, and pushes her hair behind her ears, then stands in front of him again. They need to be completely honest with each other now. No more half truths, no more thinking they know what the other is saying, no more half hearted plans that inevitably fall through. She’s going to tell him everything she has planned, and he’s going to do the same.

“We’ve been reckless this week,” she tells him, settling her hands against his shoulders. “Too obvious in our feelings for each other.”

He scans her face sharply, lips parting as he intakes a sharp breath.

“Sansa –“

She smiles ruefully, cutting him off. “You probably don’t remember much of what happened between us last night.”

His brows pull together in regret, lips pursed as he shakes his head.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers, letting her fingers brush against his cheek again. “I didn’t let you say it. I wanted you to remember.”

They both stop moving for a moment; even the misted breath that forms between them disappears as they both hold their breath.

“I’m going to fix this,” Sansa says. Jon’s hands come up to cradle her head; she turns her face slightly, so she can press a kiss to his palm, and then she locks her eyes on his. “I’ll protect you. I promise.”

When his lips press against hers for the first time, she can’t help but gasp sharply at the sensation. His mouth is soft and gentle, caressing hers for a moment before pulling back. She’s breathing heavily already, from only kissing him for a second. His nose nudges hers gently, his fingertips sliding around her neck to weave into her hair.

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice rumbling in his chest.

She circles her own hands around his forearms, and whispers her affirmation. She closes the space between them herself, her mouth parting under Jon’s careful lead. His tongue traces her bottom lip slowly, making her moan in the back of her throat. The noise encourages him to attempt to coax another from her; he pulls her body flush against his, moving his lips more insistently against hers.

She pulls from him first, a content sigh falling from her mouth as she whispers against his cheek. “I love you.”

He hums in delight, and dips his head to press an open-mouthed kiss against her jaw.

“My sweet Sansa,” he breathes, “I love you.”

He groans as they kiss again, hands sliding from her hair to grip the skirts at her hips as her own arms circle firmly around his neck. Their kiss becomes frantic very quickly, when he nips her bottom lip. The action makes her heart skip a beat and her belly tighten.

Sansa pulls from him, fingers moving quickly to the leather straps of his cloak as she pants.

“We need to talk about our plans for after,” she fumbles out, focused on undoing his buckles as his own hands pull her skirts up, “but for now I want you to make love to me.”

He pauses as his cloak drops to the ground, hands stilling in their trail up her thigh. “No, I – no. I won’t put a bastard on you. It’s too dangerous.”

She bites her lip, frustrated, a deep need to have him inside her making her disagree with him thoroughly.

Jon backs her up against wall, pressing his thigh between hers. He grips her hips tightly, guiding her to rock them against his leg.

“But I have other ways to make you peak,” he murmurs against her ear. He tilts his head down to suck on her pulse, making her moan in delight.

He rocks her hips again, this time the friction making a sharp pleasure shoot from her core and up to her fingers. Her strangled gasp makes him smile against her throat.

“That feels good?” His chest rumbles as he asks, giving her hips another rotation. “Tell me, Sansa. Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels amazing,” she admits breathlessly, pleasure sparking through her.

She rocks her hips herself this time, so his hands leave their place to slide up her waist and cup her breasts. He squeezes them as she continues to move against him, and he brings her back in for a fierce kiss with a sharp breath.

It feels spectacular, in a way she’s only dared make herself feel a handful of times, but it isn’t enough.

“Can we –“ Her stilted question pauses as he squeezes one breast harshly, making her rhythm stutter as heat shoots through her.

“Don’t stop,” he encourages, guiding her with one hand again. “Can we what, my love?”

“I don’t want any clothes between us,” she manages to groan out.

He stills her movements, and she groans and attempts to buck against him again, but he reprimands with a swift, “Ah, stop moving.”

Jon undoes the laces of his breeches quickly, letting them fall to his knees, and then he rucks up her skirt and reaches underneath to pull her smallclothes from her. They fall to the floor, forgotten, and with her skirts about her waists he guides her exposed flesh back to his thigh.

They both moan at this new feeling.

“Oh, you’re so wet,” Jon groans against her throat, his head slumped against her shoulder. He’s right; her slickness makes it easy for her to move against him, her folds parting so her nub rubs against his solid thigh. “Fuck, I want so badly to be inside you.”

She wants it, too, so keenly, but this new pleasure robs her of coherent thought as she slides against him. She can feel her peak building, an intense coil tightening in her belly, and she may have only relieved herself this way a few times but she knows that she’s close.

Hands around her breasts and breath ragged against her throat as he kisses her skin, he says, “Peak for me, Sansa,” and she falls over the edge.

She cries out as her peak rushes through her, clamping her hands down on his shoulders, her head falling back against the wall. As the stars behind her eyes disappear, she opens them to see Jon looking at her with undisguised desire.

“I want to see you do that again,” he murmurs, then presses a kiss to her lips.

She follows his lead languidly, satisfied, but then he drops to his knees and hooks her leg over his shoulder and she feels desire build up in her again.

His hot breath fans over her skin, making it prick as her hands flatten against the cool wall behind her back. She feels his fingers part her folds, and perhaps she should feel embarrassed or ashamed at such a licentious display, but all she feels is pleasure as his mouth closes over her nub.

His tongue flicks against it, making her cry out, and _gods why haven’t they done this before, this feels so good, gods, yes, yes, yes._

He slides two fingers inside her and it isn’t what she desires most but he moves so expertly that she feels another peak building up inside her. She can feel her walls clench around his fingers as his tongue circles her mercilessly, and this peak lasts longer the last, dragging on and on until she can’t stand it any longer and she has to curl her fingers in his hair and pull him from between her legs.

Without his support she drops to her knees. Jon pulls her into his lap easily as she breathes heavily, feeling completely boneless and with no desire to move. Sansa can feel his hardness against her hip, but she doesn’t have the presence of mind to do much more than fumble her hand and cup him through his smallclothes.

Still, he hisses sharply, then adjusts her on his lap.

“I’ll deal with it later,” he mutters.

“Can’t I – with my mouth, too?”

He groans, turning his head away from her. “You don’t have to,” he says, but she can tell he wants her to.

“You did,” she replies softly, leaning up to kiss his jaw.

“But I wanted to.”

“So do I.”

He groans again, then shifts her off his lap so he can stand before her, leaning against the wall like she had.

Sansa bunches the hem of her skirts under her knees for some comfort, sparing a thought to how long it might take. He pushes his smallclothes down – her eyes catch on the fresh cut on his hip, but he pays it no mind and so neither does she – baring his manhood for her.

She licks her lips, unsure what to do, but when she looks up at Jon he’s looking down at her with such hunger that she’s fairly sure she won’t exactly do it wrong.

Sansa takes the tip of him between her lips, tongue poking out to run over the head. Jon grunts harshly, and she removes her mouth, looking up at him shyly.

“I’ve never –“ she stumbles out, suddenly unsure that it’s as easy as she assumed it was, but he shakes his head quickly.

“That’s okay,” he reassures. “That felt really good.”

She does it again, hesitantly, and he groans again and this time his hips buck slightly. Sansa pulls back in surprise, and immediately apologizes fall from him.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – it’s alright, we don’t have to do this.”

But she was just surprised, truly, she didn’t really mind. Instead of reassuring him, she just takes him in her mouth again, going further down this time. His hands twine in her hair, but he doesn’t try to move her head, which she appreciates. She’s too nervous to try and take all of him, so she circles her fingers around the base of him and slides up his cock in time with her bobbing.

Sansa pulls her mouth from him again, looking up to see if he likes what she’s doing; his eyes are closed and his lips are parted and he looks like he’s desperately trying to hold himself back.

She takes him again, setting a fairly quickly pace. She needn’t have worried about kneeling for too long, it turns out, because he groans soon enough and says, “Sansa, love, I’m going to peak, I don’t want to spill in your mouth.”

For her own benefit, she’s sure, so she doesn’t stop her movements. His hips jerk and his hands tighten in her hair and she feels him pulsate between her lips. His warm seed fills her mouth and she swallows it as best she can while he’s still in her mouth.

Jon slumps against the wall, swallowing loudly as he looks down at her, slightly dazed.

“Uh, what – what did you want to talk about again?”

Sansa laughs, then wipes the sleeve of her dress against her mouth, cleaning her face.

“We’ll go back to my rooms,” she says. “It’s no small discussion, and I don’t know about you but I’d rather have it front of a fire.”

He looks around the room, as if realizing for the first time where they are.

“Oh.”

Sansa chuckles again, then stands, straightening her skirts. Jon tucks himself into his small clothes, then pulls up his breeches and laces them again. She can’t help but feel slightly awkward; she feels comfortable in their love for each other, but she’s never done anything so outrageous, let alone outside a bedchambers. It makes her tuck her hair behind her ear shyly, ducking her head to avoid his heated gaze.

“Hey, come ‘ere,” he murmurs, grasping her wrist. He guides her lips to his, giving her a sweet and lingering kiss. “I love you.”

She smiles against his lips, giving him several chaste kisses, somehow feeling completely at ease despite feeling so embarrassed only moments before. “I love you, too.”

“Gods, it’s such a relief to finally say it,” he chuckles, giving her a parting kiss. He holds the cut on his hip as he bends down to get his cloak, folding it over his arm as he also picks up her smallclothes. She holds her hand out for them, but he suppresses a smile and murmurs, “I’ll give them to you when we’re back. For now I want you to walk through the halls of our castle completely bare, knowing I’m the one who has them.”

Sansa bites her lip, feeling inexplicable desire at his soft command, and nods her head. He tucks her smallclothes into a pocket in his breeches, and she can’t help but give him another soft kiss, just because she can.

“We’ll attract less attention if we go separately,” she says as she pulls away.

Sansa leaves first, a parting glance over her shoulder to see Jon staring after her longingly, and makes her way to her chambers. It’s late enough that most have left the Hall after supper, but Sansa stays to shadows as she leaves the Tower and makes her way back into the main castle. Once there, she hides herself less, letting several maids see her by herself.

Each time she comes across a new person, her thoughts immediately fly to what she just did with Jon, and no one can possibly know, but it still makes a thrill shoot through her. It had been so . . . so . . . so _unladylike._ His mouth against her, his fingers inside her, it had made her feel so pleased, and, gods, she’s walking through the halls with no smallclothes because _Jon_ has stolen them from her.

By the time she gets to her chambers, she feels flushed, and her cunt is aching to be touched again.

Sansa closes her solar door behind her, resting her forehead against. She can’t help but sigh happily, a grin on her lips as she traces them with her fingertips, as if mimicking his kisses. They have so many obstacles to overcome, so many enemies, and they can hardly go around flaunting this development – least of all because people still think he’s her _brother_ – but, in this moment, none of that matters.

She _loves_ him, and he loves her, and it makes her happy.

Hopeful.

Sansa has felt in the past, more often than not, that is she part of a doomed family; that she was fighting to return to something that would never exist again. She knows now that that isn’t true. She’s been fighting for _this._

There’s a steaming bath waiting for her when she turns around. Sansa glances back towards the door, unsure how long Jon will be. Her instinct is to wait to bathe, or not bathe at all, because they might have just engaged in . . . activities . . . but she didn’t exactly bare her body for him.

_Oh, but he’s already seen your most private part, what difference does it make?_

She undoes the laces of her dress as quickly as she can without help, grateful that she’d forgone a corset this morning in her haste to avoid any maids coming into her bedchambers with Jon slumbering beside her, then rolls off her stockings and unwinds her braids.

The water is delightful as she slips in. Her time in the Broken Tower had made her fingers and toes numb, though she hadn’t realized how cold she’d been until she walked into the castle and the air heated up considerably. It’s even warmer in her chambers, and the water is still quite hot, so it must have only just been made for her.

The cinnamon oil she favours has already been added, a small table laden with her soaps and hair scrubs sat beside it. Sansa cleans her body and hair, taking special care to wash any evidence of her arousal and peak from between her thigh. Afterwards, she lays in the tab, hands curls around the edges as her mind wanders back to Jon.

She just can’t help it. It’s like she can still feel his hands on body, ghosting up her thighs, his lips on her throat, his rough voice rumbling through her chest as he asks if she feels good. Her hands drop from the edges as she feels her cunt start to ache again, throbbing from the potent memory of his ministrations.

She shouldn’t. She doesn’t even like to do this in the dead of night, when no one could possibly know that she slips her hands between her legs, pictures her half-brother and moans his name into her pillow. Sansa’s hand used to be stayed when she thought it was her brother’s name she called out, and even the pleasure of a climax could not tempt her often. But now there is little to stop her, and Sansa finds herself eagerly anticipating the rolling waves of pleasure that come with a peak.

Gods, Jon _just_ brought her to climax _twice._ How could she possibly want so badly already that she’s even contemplating it?

But she doesn’t want. She _needs._

She slips a little lower into the water, as if that washes away her depravity, then lets her hands cup her thighs. She could just wait for him, but she doesn’t know how long he’ll be. And he might think her debauched if she asks him to touch her again so soon after he last had.

She dips she fingers between her legs, biting her lip as she does so. A soft sigh escapes her as her fingers brush against her nub. She’s still sensitive from her time with Jon, so she sets a slow pace with a gentle touch and closes her eyes. It takes her longer to work herself up, but with her recent memories – much better than her imagination – it takes her less time than she’d anticipated. Tightness starts to impossibly coil in her belly, but still she keeps her slow pace.

With Jon’s name on her lips, she imagines his fingers as the ones moving in the water, callused and thick, and she can picture his body heavy on hers, mouthing at her neck as his arms disappear underneath the water to work at her. Her back arches from the tub as her peak starts to build, and –

The door creaks open. Sansa gasps loudly, her hands flying through the water to grip the edge of the tub in her shock. It’s only Jon, of course, but that doesn’t stop her face from reddening and her sinking further into the water in her embarrassment at being caught.

Jon stands by the door, rooted in place, mouth gaping. She’s not sure at what – her naked in the bath, perhaps, or maybe her wanton display – but he can’t seem to say a word.

Sansa can’t either, thoroughly mortified.

“Sansa,” he eventually chokes out, taking a stumbled step towards her, “what are you – were you just –“

“No,” she replies quickly, too quickly.

He comes over to the tub, eyes roaming down her submerged body.

“Sansa,” he repeats, his voice deeper, rougher this time. Her eyes close at the sound; oh, she’d be so _close,_ and now he sounds like _that,_ and she immediately feels the frustration of being so close and being denied. “I must not have done a good enough job if you seek release again.”

He loosens his leathers and removes the gloves she didn’t even know he had. Sansa doesn’t reply, unsure what to say as Jon rolls the sleeves of his undershirt up past his elbows.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes caught on the cut on his forearm. “I can’t get them wet. Fuck. I can’t even get in with you, the one on my hip - _fuck.”_

She can’t help but giggle slightly at his obvious distress. His sharp eyes narrow as he turns them down to her.

“Oh, that’s funny, is it?” His tone is stern, but there’s a smile on his lips, too, the kind of smile that he’s obviously trying to suppress but is just too happy for it to be so.

He moves to stand behind her. He pushes her soaps and oils off the stool and plants it at the end of the tub. She hears him sit behind her, and then one hand fists her wet hair while the other settles against her collarbone. His thumb follows the sharp line of it as his lips press against the shell of her ear.

“What were you doing, Sansa?”

The hand on her collarbone drifts into the water to cup one of her breasts. A whimper spills over her lips, an embarrassing noise, but Jon rewards her by tweaking her nipple.

“Hook you legs over the sides,” Jon commands, nosing behind her ear. He presses a kiss there, and Sansa is helpless against him.

She lifts and spreads her legs, knees bending over the tub’s rim.

Jon releases his grip on her hair to gently grasp her chin and turn her face towards his. He kisses her lazily, leisurely, and against her lips he mumbles, “Touch yourself, my love, show me what you were doing.”

Sansa’s hands glide through the water immediately, and Jon gives her another gentle encouragement as her fingers pick their rhythm up again. Under Jon’s careful instructions, his _yes, Sansa, you look so good like this_ and his _gods, baby, you’re driving me mad,_ his tender ministrations, his hands cupping her breasts and his fingers circling her nipple, his mouth closing over her earlobe and pressing hot kisses to her throat and jaw, his languid and appreciative kisses to her lips – it doesn’t take her long to build up to where she left off.

Jon captures her whine with his mouth, swallowing it as she comes.

Her hands lift to rest against her hips and she pulls her legs back into the water as her chest heaves with her stilted breath, and she should feel embarrassed – gods, in one afternoon she’s participated in three separate dirty sexual actions, her septa would be mortified – but she can’t. Not with the way Jon looks at her, equal parts love and desire. Could it really be so wrong when she feels so consumed with the most pure feelings she’s ever had the to honour to have? When he so obviously returns her wholehearted affections?

“I know now is not exactly the time,” Jon mumbles, pulling back from her slightly to rest his elbow against the rim and prop his head against his hand to look at her. “But I . . . I want to marry you, Sansa. I would be honoured to take you as my wife.”

Sansa’s lips twitch down, her elation marred by the betrothal he’s already organized today.

Jon clears his throat. “Unless you don’t want to,” he says, removing his head from his palm and leaning away from her.

She twists in the tub, knees curling to her chest as she turns to face him directly.

“I would be honoured as well, Jon,” she murmurs, reaching from the water to grasp his hands in hers. He resists her for a moment, hurt, she’s sure, by her rejection, but she stubbornly slots her fingers through his. He relents easily, giving her palm a gentle squeeze. “But . . .”

His lips twitch up, despite her denial, and he quietly repeats _but_ on a small laugh. Sansa can’t help the fondness that swells up in her; she’s just effectively denied his marriage proposal, and still he finds a small delight in remembering a pointed conversation between them.

“Jon.” She tugs on his hand, urging him over to her so can cup his face and give him another gentle kiss. When they part, she says, “Now isn’t the time. I want it to be, truly. You are my husband in my heart if not in name. But we’ve been foolish, you know that we have.”

He nudges his nose against hers and murmurs, “Why do you always have to be right?”

Sansa laughs, then settles back into the bath, stretching out again and dipping her head into the water so it comes up to her chin.

“It’s time to be honest with each other, don’t you think?” Sansa says, watching her hands as they skim over the top of the water. “No more ‘we’ll talk about it another day’. Let’s lay our plans bare.”

“Are you to stay in the bath while we do?” Jon asks from behind her. The stool scrapes as he stands, then he wanders into her eyesight. “I fear I may be too distracted to have such a conversation if you are.”

She ponders the thought for a moment. The water is still warm, but she’s been in here long enough that her fingers have pruned. She’s struck with nerves, however, with the thought of standing up for him to see. It feels like too much for today, but she’s not sure what to say.

“Would you pass me a towel?” she asks finally.

He gives her a gentle smile, then turns to pick up the towel laid on her table and holds it out to her.

“I . . . would you . . . could you . . . turn around?” Her stumbled sentence makes his brows scrunch at first, but once she makes her request understanding floods his face.

“Of course, Sansa,” he replies, with no questions, then holds the towel out so she can take it while he turns his back.

The water splashes as she stands and reaches over to him. The floor is cool as her wet feet touch it, but she dries herself quickly, then tells him she’s going to get changed and to wait by the fire for her.

In the privacy of her bedchambers, Sansa presses her hands to her cheeks, overcome with the giddiness of her love for him. He’d known she was uncomfortable, and rather than press that it was no matter for him to see her, he’d done as she’d asked immediately. Perhaps she should always expect her requests to be followed, perhaps that is just a decency she should be afforded, but it’s one she never has been, not since she left Winterfell.

Sansa dresses in her nightclothes quickly, then rubs some soothing cream into her face and hands. She considers brushing her hair before she joins him, but ultimately decides to bring the brush out with her.

Jon is tending to the fire, poking it with a focus that makes her smile. She takes a seat on the lounge, and Jon joins her, sitting opposite her. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, then clasps his hands in the space between his legs.

“I’ll start,” he says, “because I have very little to add.”

“Start from the beginning,” Sansa tells him. “I know we’ve talked about this somewhat, but tell me everything. Start from when you landed on Dragonstone.”

And so he does. In somewhat stilted conversation, and with a seriousness that the situation warrants, Jon describes to her the prison Daenerys had constructed from the moment his rowboat landed on the beaches of Dragonstone. He tells her how vehemently he had opposed her at first, and about how his frankness had slowly declined until finally he’d started to tell Daenerys what she wanted to hear, rather than the truth that Jon kept in his heart. He tells her that it hadn’t even been his idea to seduce Daenerys, but that it became very clear that she fancied him, and that a romance between the two seemed inevitable to everyone else.

He tells her how his fear had grown and grown until he’d reached the point in which he’d felt he had no other option than to bend the knee, despite Daenerys having already had agreed to come North.

Sansa think’s again to Daenerys’ _Jon’s war,_ and can’t help but agree with his assessment. Convincing someone to a course is one thing; getting them to say is another.

When he finally gets to describing the conversation he’d had with Daenerys _today,_ Sansa is shaking her head in dismay.

“Gods, Jon,” she says, standing to take a seat beside him. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”

He looks at her hesitantly, from beneath his lashes. “You’re not mad?”

“ _No,”_ she says quickly, aghast. “No, Jon, of course not. I understand why you made these decisions. You’ve done the best you can with very little at your disposal. I only wish I could have helped you. Why would I be mad?”

He sighs and looks away from her. “I should have listened to you. You were right, about everything. I was woefully underprepared. You would have dealt with it much better.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she says firmly. “All that matters is what we do from here. We will keep our family and our people alive, Jon, and though it will be hard, this is by no means a situation I can’t get us out of.”

“Really?” he asks dubiously, turning to her again.

She raises a brow at him. “You doubt me?”

“No, no,” he hastens to say. “I just . . . really felt like I’d fucked it up.”

She takes his face between her hands. “Unless I lay cold and dead in the ground, there is no situation I cannot fix, nothing I will not do to keep us safe.”

He brings her in for a fierce kiss, which quickly devolves into teeth and tongue and harsh tugs of hair; Jon pulls her to straddle his lap and grinds her core against his hardening cock, but Sansa pulls away with a pat against his face.

“You should tell Daenerys your parentage,” she says, thoroughly spoiling the mood.

Jon groans and shifts her off him, though keeps her calves against his thighs, hands trailing up her legs as she settles her back against the arm of the chair.

“She’ll think I always knew,” he says finally.

“Convince her that you didn’t,” Sansa replies. “It’s the truth. If she thinks you didn’t always know, you’ll be more likely to be able to use it to bargain. Position it like you telling her is a favour you’re doing. Get her to agree that you’ll publically renounce your claim and declare her the Queen _if_ she grants the North independence.”

“That’s dangerous, Sansa,” Jon warns, his hands stilling against her skin. “If she decides she wants the North, she’ll declare war and take it from us.”

“She’ll _try_ and take it from us,” Sansa corrects. “Rhaegal’s allegiance has shifted to you, you said. That might be enough to stay her hand.”

“I _think_ he has. In any case, it might still not be enough. She might send Drogon to war against his brother.”

The thought sends a chill down her spine. Sansa can’t imagine desiring something so much that she sacrifices everything and everyone for it.

She bites her lip and drums her fingers against her thigh. “Alright,” she says finally. “Let me think on it more.”

He takes the opportunity to spread her legs and roll between them, propping one knee on the lounge and planting the other foot against the floor so he can line his body up hers and kiss her again.

She lets him, of course, because why wouldn’t she, and she even lets him get his hands on her, lets him cup her breast and mouth her throat until he coaxes her to arch her back. Before his hands can wander any further south, can work up the hem of her skirts like he so obviously wants to, she pushes against his chest and says, “I have a plan for Cersei, too.”

He huffs and bows his head, his curls tickling her chin as he slumps against her. “I just want to kiss my beautiful lady wife,” he says, voice mumbled into the curve of her breast. Sansa’s heart flutters; she hadn’t realized he’d taken her _you are my husband in my heart_ so seriously. She supposes that they need share no vows, not truly; the gods have bore witness to their devotion this night, no matter that it weren’t in front of a Heart Tree. “Why won’t you let me?”

“Tempting,” she teases, arching her neck to press a kiss to the top of his head then spearing her fingers through his curls. “Quickly, up now, let me tell you and then you can take me to bed. _Husband.”_

He pushes up to kiss her again, fervent and in response to her endearment she’s sure. He pulls away at her urging, but then he kisses her quickly again, and again, and again, unable to help himself.

“Ugh, alright, alright,” he grumbles as she starts to laugh.

Once he’s sitting up again, she curls her legs underneath her so he isn’t tempted to place his skin on hers again. As quickly as she can, she details to him her plans for Cersei; what she’s spoken to Jaime about this week, the raven’s she’d sent to Essos.

Jon asks many questions, the obvious one’s she was expecting, and some insightful ones that she hadn’t.

The fire wears down as they continue to talk, interrupted several times by Jon’s eager mouth and hands. When it gets time to go to bed, Jon murmurs that he’ll be gone by the time her handmaidens arrive in the morning, which is only a few hours away.

They both slide under the furs of her bed; it takes a moment to find a position curled up together that doesn’t pull or press against any of his wounds, but they lay with Sansa on his right side, the opposite to the cut on his hip, with her head on his chest so she isn’t touching the cut on his forearm. His fingers tangle in the ends of her hair and she hooks her calf through his and Sansa falls asleep listening to his chest rumble underneath her as he tells her he loves her.

 

Jon

“Seven hells, Arya,” Jon grunts as he stumbles back from her kick towards his knees. “Fuck, we’re sparring and I’m _injured,_ stop playing dirty.”

She shrugs, spinning Needle in her grip. “You’re the one who’s marching south in a fortnight,” she says, gesturing to him with the point of her sword. “Besides, you’re all stitched up, you’re hardly even injured.”

Jon purses his lips, switching Longclaw to his unwounded arm to give his throbbing right arm a break. “I’m not sure that that’s how it works,” he replies wryly, leaning all his weight to his right leg.

“I once fought through the streets of Braavos with a stomach wound. And I won. If I can do that, you can do this.”

Jon wets his lips with his tongue, wondering what to say to that. He wants to ask what she means, wants her to tell him the story, but by the challenging tilt to her brow he can tell she won’t tell him even if he asks. Instead, he carefully says, “Life or death is different to sparring.”

Quick as a flash, Arya darts out and nicks the tip of Needle against his thigh. It isn’t a true cut, not really, but she’s ripped his breeches and when he presses his fingers through the hole there’s a small drop of blood.

“Who says it’s not life or death?”

Jon looks up to her, shocked. “Arya,” he says, his surprise leaking into his tone to make him sound more like their father than he’d intended. “Are you alright?”

Her face clouds over, and then becomes an unreadable mask. It’s a cold look from his sister, and it scares him a little.

“When did you find out about Rhaegar and Lyanna?” Arya asks.

“I – what?”

She steps closer to him, clasping her hands behind her back as she stares up at him.

He’s confused, but her stare compels him to answer. She intimidates him when she’s like this, and maybe if it weren’t his most adored sister’s face staring up at him he’d be less likely to be so verbose; but it _is_ Arya, and so he tells her.

“Sam told me when I got back from Dragonstone,” he tells her, eyes darting around at the other groups sparring. They’re not listening in, thank the gods; he can’t afford this information to get around right now.

A dark frown mars her face, and Jon gets the distinct feeling that that was the wrong answer, but he has no idea why. She steps closer to him, almost toe to toe. Jon isn’t sure how they got to this point, why she feels the need to interrogate him so, but it makes him uncomfortable enough to shift from foot to foot.

“Why did you go back into Sansa’s room after the feast?” she asks him, voice lowered, both so people don’t overhear but also in an act of intimidation. It works; Jon’s heart slams against his chest. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember even seeing Arya that night, and he certainly doesn’t remember going to Sansa’s a first time, let alone going _back_ – he just knows he ended up there because he woke up alone in her bed. “I specifically told you not to.”

Again, he’s not sure what she wants him to say, but he definitely feels like this has a lot of potential to go wrong. He goes too long without answering, trying to come up with the right answer – which certainly isn’t _because I love her_ or, even worse, _I wanted to fuck her,_ because he may not remember what happened but those are the only two truthful options – but he’s never been good at thinking on his feet and coming up with lies.

“I think you’re in love with her,” Arya says slowly, looking over his face, likely for confirmation. It seems she doesn’t need it, but she must still find it because her lips tighten into a thin line. “I think she’s in love with you too. And I also think that this type of love has grown over time. You didn’t fall in love with each other in the past week. And I believe that you only just learnt about your parentage.”

Oh _fuck._ He didn’t imagine he would be this position, not since he learnt the truth of his lineage. He didn’t imagine Sansa would _return_ his feelings, of course, but when he’d dreamt that she would, Arya condemning them both for it hadn’t been part of it.

Only yesterday he and Sansa had confessed to each other in the Broken Tower, and in the time since then all thought of telling anybody the truth of their shame had fled. It would have been so easy to conceal it. He knows that people have guessed the romantic nature of his feelings for Sansa – Daenerys, of course, and now Arya, and Sansa had told him about the Hound’s comment at the feast, and Davos has been giving him pointed looks since then too, and Sansa had also casually mentioned that Jaime Lannister had his suspicious, and if all those people had known then he guesses that other’s did, too – but he’d figured that once he decided to reveal the truth of his parentage then everyone would either assume that he and Sansa had always known, or they would be _told_ they’d always known.

“What I can’t then work out,” she continues, “is how those two things go together. How do you fall in love before you went to Dragonstone, and yet still have thought yourself siblings?”

Jon knows Arya isn’t that naïve.

He sheaths Longclaw and sighs deeply. He can’t look her in the eyes as he mutters, “You know how.”

Arya doesn’t say anything for moment, but he lifts his eyes from the muddy ground and up to hers when she sheaths her own sword.

“Jon, you have no idea how much I wanted it to be true that you just decided I wasn’t worthy of knowing about your father immediately.”

His eyes fall closed, because there’s such disappointment in her expression. He’d expected disgust, or revulsion, and he’s prepared for that, but disappointment is hard to face.

“If you’ve suspected since I returned,” Jon says, opening his eyes, “then why is it only making you angry now?”

He can tell that she didn’t expect him to challenge her, because she juts her chin and says, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Jon reaches for her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Arya,” he says, “please. Tell me what’s happened. Why are you so upset?”

“Because you’re fucking your sister,” she hisses.

“ _Arya.”_

He suspects that that isn’t why. If it were, she would have voiced these concerns earlier; when she truly did think them siblings, or when he told the truth of his parentage, or even whenever he saw her after the feast. Something else must be tormenting her, and while Jon still knows her well enough to know that, he doesn’t know her well enough to guess what the true cause may be.

She slips from his grip and turns from him.

Jon calls her name again, too much reprimand in his voice because she snaps over her shoulder, “Stop it, Jon, you’re not my father,” and then she disappears around the corner.

He considers going after her, but he thinks that if he does then the situation might only devolve even further, and he doesn’t want that. Best to let her cool off, and in the meantime he’ll try and think on what could be bothering her so considerably.

Jon takes his midday meal in the Hall, and each mouthful feels like another lodge in his gut. Daenerys hasn’t requested his presence this afternoon, no doubt content with the way she’s backed him in to a corner and letting him stew on it, but he doesn’t particularly mind that. He doesn’t want to see her, it’s true, though if he _doesn’t_ see her then it will be difficult to make her think her plan is working.

His afternoon is spent with the grumbling northern lords as he and Sansa tell them the plans for the march south. Sansa wrangles them better than Jon ever could, and he’s happy to leave the minutiae of settling them to her. Sansa disappears into her office afterwards, and he intends to follow her, to talk to her about his conversation with Arya and maybe to bend her over the desk and fuck her with his fingers, but he gets cornered by Lord Cerwyn who wants to discuss whether the Glovers have been reprimanded for not taking part in the Great War – “They have, Lord Cerwyn, Lady Stark penned the scroll herself, and I signed off on it.” – and whether they will be coming south before he gets the opportunity to slip into her office.

By the time supper rolls around, Jon is thoroughly ready to have alone time with Sansa and get his hands on her, but Daenerys finally deigns them with her presence. It’s the first time she and Sansa have been in the room together since Jon told Sansa he’s to marry Daenerys, and Sansa plays her part perfectly. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes downcast as she stiffly takes her seat beside Jon, and the Dragon Queen finds plenty of opportunity to lean over Jon and make Sansa talk to her, smugness lining her tone so viscerally that Jon let’s himself glare at her.

He’d glare at her if he really were sure that he’d _have_ to marry Daenerys, if he were heartbroken over this turn of events – and he is deeply anxious over it, but mostly because he’s _stressed,_ not because he’s heartbroken – and so really, it works with this new part he’s playing. The part of a man that Daenerys has conquered, a man who has been defeated and has no cards left to play.

Daenerys takes even more opportunity to act possessively over him, put her hand on his arm for everyone to see or moving her chair closer to his. The Northern lords are shooting angry looks up at them, but Jon can’t do anything about it. Until he tells Daenerys the truth, this is the way it has to be.

When the day draws to a close, Jon retires to his chambers, eager to sneak into Sansa’s rooms but knowing there are too many handmaidens and staff wandering the halls at this time. They’ll come into his rooms soon, to remove his bath and turn down his bed, and they’ll do the same to Sansa’s, and so he can’t abandon his rooms for hers until that’s done.

As the night gets darker, and the snow starts to truly fall outside, Jon quietly sneaks from his room. Once inside her chambers, he wanders through her empty solar and into her bedchambers. She’s standing by the window, looking out into the dark. He can hear the wind whipping outside, and when he comes to stand beside her he can see the start of what promises to be a big winter storm.

Sansa worries her finger over her lip. “I think it’s going to be bad,” she says. “I want to see if it gets worse in the next half hour, and if it does I think we should bring everyone inside.”

Jon pauses, looking over to her. “Everyone?” he repeats.

“I went down to Wintertown this afternoon,” she says, and Jon starts. _When did she even have time for that?_ “A lot of houses were ruined in the Great War. If this storm gets any worse people will start freezing to death. We’ll bring the people in first, put them in the Great Hall and in as many rooms in the main castle as they need. Then we’ll bring in the Unsullied. Daenerys and her advisors occupy the top floor of the guesthouses, and the Unsullied generals are in the rest; we’ll have to fill those rooms as much as we can then, and then those we can’t fit in we’ll have to bring into the castle as well.”

“Winterfell will be fit to burst,” Jon says, staring out at the snow as well. He takes her hand in his, because he can, because they’re partners, and he likes how easy it is to show her affection, devotion.

“No one else is going to die while I can do something about it.”

He pulls her against his chest, and pushes her freshly washed wet hair behind her ear. “Half an hour, hm?” he whispers. He palms her waist, fisting a handful of her skirts, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arse.

Jon gets her back pressed against the cold of the windowpane; he wishes he could wrap her legs around his waist and thrust up into her, wishes he could fuck her against the cool glass and see what the mixture of cold and heat does to her, but he truly doesn’t want to risk getting her with child. Instead he gets her out of her nightdress, leaving the shift on underneath, then presses his fingers inside her as she sighs and gasps sweetly and he lets praise spill from him as she comes. She takes his length in hand when she’s sated, and he spills into her palm with muttered apologies that he forgets as soon as she licks a line up her hand.

By the time the half hour has passed the snow falling is only worse, and Sansa starts to mutter about high snow drifts and slippery roads and Jon takes that as sign to wake up anyone he can to help move people into the castle.

When morning comes, the castle is as full as Jon thought it would be. He’s had very little sleep, and spent the night out in the snow with but a lantern for light as he helped lead cold and shivering smallfolk from their damaged homes and into Winterfell. Sansa doesn’t look anywhere near as stressed as he does when he catches sight of her mid-morning, but he doesn’t see how that can be possible considering she’s the one who is trying to organize food and bedding for everyone, while also trying to keep the peace with Daenerys who is less than pleased with the development of having so many more people in her building.

He’s so stressed, in fact, that it isn’t until the next morning and Gendry comes to him concerned that Jon realizes he hasn’t seen Arya since his argument with her.

“Wait, what do you mean you haven’t seen her?” Jon demands, gripping the collar of Gendry’s jerkin and bringing the man to an abrupt stop.

“Well, I just – I mean, we’ve been fighting, I think, but before the day before last I’d still seen her lurking about. But I didn’t see her at all yesterday, and this morning I’ve searched everywhere. I know she’s hard to find, and especially with so many people, but –“

Jon cuts him off with an upheld hand, looking up to the sky that is still opened up with heavy snow.

“ _Fuck,”_ Jon curses swiftly, leaving Gendry behind as he turns away.

“Uh, Jon? I mean – Your Grace – uh, My Lord?”

Jon ignores him and rushes to find Sansa. When he finds her this time she looks much more stressed, and he second guesses telling her for only a moment but he abandons that quickly when she catches sight of him and immediately asks what’s wrong.

“I think Arya’s gone,” he tells her.

Her face floods with horror, mouth parting. “ _No,_ ” she gasps. “She must have gone to kill Cersei. Oh, it slipped my mind to speak with her! Jon, if she’s out in this storm –“

“I’ll go,” he offers quickly. “I’ll take Ghost, and Tormund, and I’ll bring her home.”

The ride is rough, wind and snow battering them until Jon is concerned he might never be able to move his fingers and toes again, but he doesn’t complain and neither does Tormund. They both just follow Ghost as best they can.

When he finds Arya, a day’s ride south of Winterfell, she’s holed up in an inn along the Kingsroad. He discovers very quickly that she would have pushed through the storm to continue south, but she hadn’t because she’d come across something important enough to make her pause. Jon leaves Ghost outside to hunt, and Tormund stays in the pub, seating himself at a table with shivering northmen and a flask of ale, and then follows Arya upstairs to the room she’d rented with the coin she’d taken from Sansa’s room.

Jon thinks about reprimanding her, telling her about how worried everyone’s been, but he’s fairly sure if he does that then he’ll lose any chance he has to convince her to come home.

He hears someone muttering inside the room she stops outside of, a deep voice that he’s fairly sure he recognizes. Arya unlocks the door, and Jon’s gaze immediately falls on the Hound, who frowns at him.

“You’re here,” the Hound says.

“An astute observation,” Jon snaps. “Arya, _this_ is the important thing you wanted me to see? _Him?_ ”

“Not him,” Arya snaps. “Them.”

She points to the opposite side of the room. Jon’s breath lodges in his throat, and it’s almost like his heart stops and starts again.

“Arya, where -?”

He drops to his knees. The direwolf pups yip in excitement and race over to him. A light brown one slaps it’s paws against his knees, while a white and grey one butts it’s head against his unwounded hip. The dark grey one manages to get one of Jon’s fingers in it’s mouth and bites down; Jon hisses and pulls his finger away, but the pup has managed to draw a bit of blood. The final one, light brown and white, looks up at Jon patiently as it paces a small line on the floor, running it’s body against it’s siblings as it does so.

“The dark one is a boy,” Arya says as she kneels beside him. “The other three are girls.”

The boy, the one that bit him, bounds into Arya’s lap, resting it’s paws against her chest and licking her face. She runs a hand down his back and smiles at him fondly. “I’ve named him Lomas, after Lomas Longstrider who travelled the world and chronicled the wonders.”

Lomas loses attention quickly, trotting from Arya and over to the Hound, who rolls his eyes and nudges the pup away with his foot.

“The other three I’ve left to name for you and Sansa and Bran.”

Jon doesn’t mention Ghost, instead deciding to gift one to Bran and two to Sansa.

“Arya,” Jon says, reaching over to pick up the light brown and white one, the one with the easy temperament. “Come home with me.”

“No,” she says firmly. “I’m still going south.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye.” He doesn’t look at her as he says this, instead patting the pup in his arms. He’ll definitely give this one to Sansa. “Why do you feel the need to go? Sansa has a plan.”

“Sansa can’t do everything.”

“You said she was the smartest person you know.”

“She doesn’t need to do this. I can do it myself.”

Jon returns to Winterfell with four new pups – “Keep Lomas safe for me while I’m gone.” Jon takes Lomas easily, knowing it’s Arya’s way of promising she’ll return – but with no Arya.

Sansa is delighted by the new additions to their family, naming the gentle brown and white one Jenny, and the white and grey girl Dawn. Bran names the light brown girl Spot, which makes Jon’s face screw up in confusion.

“You can’t name a direwolf pup _Spot,”_ Jon says, aghast.

“Why not?” Bran asks as he settles Spot on his lap.

“You don’t want to give her a meaningful name?” Jon presses. “She doesn’t even _have_ spots.”

“Exactly,” Bran replies, Spot laying across his lap, Bran’s furs in her mouth.

That night, though, Jon holds Sansa while she cries. Ghost sits in front of the hearth, Jenny nestled into his neck, while Dawn continually nudges against him so much that he lifts his head to growl at her and put her in her place. Dawn settles down and finds her own spot on the rug.

“Why couldn’t she just let me handle it?” Sansa asks, trying not to sniffle but fighting a losing battle. “I don’t want her down there, I want her _home.”_

“She’ll come back,” Jon reassures her, even though he doesn’t know it to be true. He only hopes it is. Arya could get herself into a lot of trouble down south, if she even manages to make it through this storm.

Sansa wipes her face and rests her head against his shoulder.

“How did you go riding with your leg?” she asks him.

He grunts, squeezing her hand. “It wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t pull as much as I expected.”

“So you’ll have to leave me, too.”

His eyes flutter closed, heart lodging in his throat. He isn’t sure what to say to make it better. Because he _does_ have to leave her too. He has to go south, if just to stop Daenerys from doing something awful.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sansa whispers, tears choking her voice again. Her hand clutches his tunic tightly. “I’m afraid of what she’ll do if you go.”

He presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, trying to push away his anxiousness. “I’m afraid of what she’ll do if I don’t.”

 

Jaime

Sansa asks him to come to her the morning the snow stops, almost a week after it started.

“Do you think that’s the last of winter?” he asks her as he takes a seat in front of her hearth, two direwolf pups rushing through his feet and almost making him trip over. Sansa holds another to her chest, stroking it’s fur.

No one had been spared the cramping as the Unsullied had moved into the castle. Even Sansa herself had opened her rooms to Jon and Bran and Brienne, utilizing the rooms those three had abandoned to fill with more smallfolk families, more Unsullied soldiers.

Jaime has been sharing his room with Tyrion and three other Unsullied that he hadn’t known before the week began, and with the clouds starting to disperse for the first time in days he’s hoping that he’ll be able to go back to sharing his room with _one_ particular person.

“No,” Sansa replies swiftly. “But the maester thinks this is the last of this storm. If it doesn’t snow anymore between now and this time tomorrow then I’ll start moving everyone out of the castle again.”

A handmaiden sets a tray of tea between them, and Sansa waves her away afterwards. When the room is empty, Jaime speaks freely.

“Why have you asked me here?” he asks.

Sansa purses her lips, the pup in her arms licking her hand continuously.

“I know that you’ve been struggling with what I asked you to do.”

Yes, he has. Probably for the same reasons that she thinks, too. He wants to serve Sansa Stark, not just as her sworn shield but as a faithful subject, too. But to go south like she’s asked, to play the game in the way she’s asked– he thinks her request might have more moral value than anything Cersei ever asked him to do, because at least Sansa is asking it of him for the good of the realm; but he just doesn’t know if he can bring himself to do it. He _wants_ to, gods he does, but he’s fairly sure that if he faces Cersei on his own he’ll fall to his knees and be unable to bring himself to stand again.

But Sansa has proven herself to be a more than capable leader since he arrived in Winterfell. She is as smart and cunning as Cersei, but without any of Cersei’s disregard for life. She is as kind and compassionate as her father, but without any of his hopefulness and political naivety. She exerts as much power as Daenerys, but without having to use fear of dragons to do so (Jaime even suspects that she doesn’t truly know just how far her reach extends). He wants someone like that to be his Queen.

“I also know you’ve found a compelling reason to stay here in Winterfell.”

Jaime isn’t sure what to say to that. He isn’t surprised that she knows he’s taken her other sworn shield to bed. He couldn’t say for sure how she knows, because Brienne doesn’t seem the type to divulge the secrets of her private life, but Jaime knows that Brienne and Sansa have a special relationship with a strong bond. He can’t help but wonder how much Sansa has told Brienne of her own recent relationship development, but he would never dare ask either woman.

Sansa goes quiet for a moment as well, while she pours them both cups of tea. When she settles opposite him, her fingers clench together, her knuckles going white, and Jaime thinks that that is one of the most telling gestures she’s ever done in his presence.

He may never have been able to tell the difference between when he’s being manipulated and when he’s not, but he knows that what Sansa has asked him to do will end in her favour. It couldn’t _not._

But this, this restless fidgeting, the nervousness on her face – he can tell he _isn’t_ being manipulated now. Whatever she’s about to ask him she’s asking from her heart.

“I’m sure you’re aware by now that Arya is gone.”

Jaime nods once. _Everyone_ knows Arya is gone. Between Jon and Ghost’s disappearance from the castle for two days, Sansa’s worry in that time, the direwolf pups that he’d returned with, and Arya’s newfound fame marking her face as easily recognizable – it would be difficult for anyone not to know.

“She’s gone to kill Cersei.”

Jaime’s heart thuds in his chest, a leftover response of his all-consuming love for his twin. His panic is quickly followed by relief; if Arya kills Cersei, he need not worry about the duty that compels him to do it himself. And then he takes in Sansa’s face – she’s biting her lip, hands clenched again, and the pup by her side whines and nudges it’s face against her leg.

“Jaime,” Sansa says quietly, “I won’t pretend that I’m asking you again to go south for duty and honour, or for the realm. I ask you now to go south and stop my sister.”

“You _don’t_ want her to kill Cersei?” Jaime asks dubiously. It seems to him like Arya taking this matter into her own hands stands to benefit them all.

“No. She need not become a Queenslayer just to settle revenge.”

“But you’d have me change my mantle from Kingslayer to Queenslayer? To _Kin_ slayer?” It slips out before he thinks better of it.

She frowns at him. “You know that’s not what I’ve asked you to do.”

It feels like it, however.

“You understand the risk of sending _me_ south?” Jaime asks, because he doesn’t believe that she truly trusts him with this task. How could she? After she knows all he’s done – the things she _doesn’t_ know he’s done – how could she possibly believe that she can trust him with Cersei’s fate?

He wouldn’t trust her with Jon’s.

“I understand the risk to you,” she says, “and if she takes you captive then I would mount a rescue.”

He sits back in his chair and drinks all his tea in one go. He’d prefer something stronger, or maybe that the tea were spiked with something, but the heat of it is close enough to the burn of ale that it steels him to say, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

The playful growl of the two direwolf pups on the ground breaks the tense silence between them. Jaime watches as a dark grey one gets its head under the chest of a white and grey one – Lomas and Dawn, Sansa had said – and flips Dawn over on her back. The pup immediately starts to cry in surrender, and Lomas backs away from her quickly.

Sansa watches the exchange with sharp eyes, and when she turns them on him Jaime feels distinctly like she can see into his soul.

“Yes,” she finally answers. “I trust you.”

 

The snow has still stopped the following day, as Sansa said, and the Unsullied are the first to leave the castle. The smallfolk homes will only be more destroyed, Sansa had said, the roofs caved in from heavy snow, and many homes still unlivable and cold. They’ll likely have to stay in the castle for weeks more.

But the Unsullied have thick tents to move back in to, and when Jaime dons a cloak to cover his blond hair, he easily disappears into the crowd. He see’s only Sansa before he leaves, and they share no words. She gifts him with a tight hug and satchel of coin, and he passes her two scrolls to give to Brienne.

Sansa has sworn him to secrecy for fear of his true intentions finding their way to Cersei’s ears. But Jaime couldn’t stand to face Brienne, to look into her eyes and tell her he’s going south, because he’s too much of a coward. The first note he’s given to Sansa is to explain his absence to Brienne, to spill lies designed to hurt Brienne so much that she doesn’t want to follow. _Cersei is hateful,_ he wrote, _and so am I._

The second Sansa is to give to Brienne if he doesn’t come back and he can’t explain it to her himself. Sansa promises to take the blame herself, promises to tell Brienne everything and to tell her that she made him so south, and Jaime doesn’t bother to tell her not to. The note explains it enough that Brienne would never believe Sansa. _I know you think I’m a good man,_ he wrote, _but if I had stayed, I would not have been the man you think me to be, or that I want to be._

Jaime gets on his horse and starts the long journey to King’s Landing, hoping he catches up to Arya in time.

 

Sansa

As the castle empties, Sansa realizes that she’s going to get a few extra days with Jon. Even Daenerys is hesitant to leave now, with the snow drifts so deep and her forces exhausted from the sickness that had passed through them while they’d slept out in the tents. The snow stops three days before they’d been set to start mobolising, and when Jon comes to her that night he tells her that Daenerys had told him today they would wait for three more days after their proposed leave date.

“Should we still go ahead with telling her tomorrow?” Jon asks her as he lays in her bed, playing with her fingers. Their skin is slick with sweat and Sansa’s heart has only just settled from the peak he’d brought her to with his mouth and fingers.

“Yes,” she replies finally. “I’ve already invited Missandei to tea, and if I reschedule as you do then suspicions will raise.”

Jon drops her hand to ghost his fingers up her arm and across her collarbone. “Have I told you how much your intelligence turns me on?”

“I don’t think so,” she says faux thoughtfully, even though he’d only said such words to her this afternoon. “I think you should prove it.”

Sansa laughs as he rolls atop her, planting his elbows either side of her head and dropping his face to give her fierce kiss.

When Missandei joins her for tea midmorning, all traces of Jon are long gone. Anything he’d moved into her room from his occupied chambers he’d moved back in the early light, his chambers again empty from smallfolk now that the Unsullied had vacated space.

Sansa greets the other woman warmly as she stands hesitantly before her solar door, and welcomes her in quickly.

Missandei is quiet and hesitant, though Sansa isn’t surprised by this. Sansa leads Missandei to the table and lounges by the hearth, where she always takes the guests she wants to make feel comfortable.

“I’m sorry if this invitation came as a surprise,” Sansa says warmly as her handmaiden pours them some tea. “You seem like an interesting woman, and I thought perhaps it would be nice to talk outside of the dangers of wights and ice magic.”

That settles Missandei enough for the woman to smile widely.

“I must admit,” Missandei says after a few moments, “that while your home is very beautiful, I find all this snow rather . . .”

Sansa laughs. “It’s certainly not for everyone,” she agrees. “And when it snows like it has been, it loses his charm, even for me. It can quickly change from something lovely to something dangerous. Frankly, storms like these only make life harder for everyone.”

“I know you invited me,” Missandei says cautiously, putting her cup of tea down on the table and folding her hands in her lap. “But I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh?” Sansa asks, mimicking Missandei’s pose. “Whatever for?”

“For accepting the Queen’s proposal,” Missandei replies. “I know having so many people inside the castle made it awfully crowded, and the Unsullied would never have asked to be let in, but so many would have died if you hadn’t agreed to let them inside.”

Sansa purses her lips. She’s a little confused, but she can guess what lies the Queen has been feeding Missandei. Just this morning Daenerys had mentioned how glad she was to finally have space back to herself, and to hear such a gratitude from Missandei makes Sansa’s skin itch with frustration at Daenerys.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” Sansa says apologetically, trying to hide her irritation. “I didn’t agree to anything. The Queen didn’t even know I was bringing everyone inside until she was asked to share her rooms with you.”

This time it’s Missandei’s brow that furrows with confusion. “I don’t understand,” she mutters. “The Queen told me that she practically begged you to let her forces in.”

Sansa takes a quiet sip of her tea, then says softly, “Queen Daenerys doesn’t seem the type to beg.”

The comment distracts Missandei so much that it’s a true effort to keep conversation flowing between them. Sansa doesn’t mind Missandei – mostly, she feels bad for the girl, having to be so far away from her home in a land so foreign to her – but the conversation between them is stifling. Even when Sansa tries to prod her by asking questions about her home, Missandei’s answers are stilted.

She keeps glancing towards the door, but Sansa is determined to keep her here as long as possible. Jon needs the time alone with Daenerys, without the tempering force of her closest female friend.

Finally, when her pot of tea empties, Sansa decides there’s no use in torturing the two of them any longer. Under the guide of having duties to attend, Sansa apologises and says she has to leave. Missandei, bless her, is polite and pays Sansa more attention than she had the whole conversation when she says, “Thank you for inviting me, Lady Stark, I had a lovely time.”

Sansa knows that isn’t the case, but she still gives the woman’s hand a gentle squeeze in parting.

Sansa watches Missandei disappear down the hall, and hopes that she’s given Jon enough time.

 

Jon

Jon sits opposite Daenerys as she stares him down.

“Well?” she says, gesturing her hand at him, then propping it under her chin. “You said you’ve come to extend a formal proposal.”

Jon darts his eyes to Varys, who sits beside Daenerys pensively, and then to Tyrion, who looks as nervous as he has for days. Davos sits beside Jon, back straight with his own suppressed fear.

Jon had quietly informed him of the situation this morning, and the first thing Davos had said was, “Oh, thank _fuck_ she’s not your sister,” so Jon generally feels like Davos agrees with the plan. Still, as much as Davos adores Sansa, even he is scared of what might happen during this meeting, that perhaps the plan is not strong enough.

“I have something I wanted to share with you before that,” Jon says, trying to make his tone easy and light.

She gestures with her hand again, a _go ahead,_ and so Jon shoots Davos an uneasy look and then says, “It has to do with my father.”

Varys shifts in his chair, face clouding over with uncertainty, while Tyrion glances between Jon and Daenerys.

“Lord Eddard Stark?” Daenerys asks, a little incredulously. “What could he have to do with a marriage proposal?”

Jon looks to Davos again, suddenly tongue-tied.

“Not exactly, Your Grace,” Davos says quickly. He meets Jon’s eyes and gives him a reassuring nod.

The exchange sets all three on edge, and Daenerys’ loud demand of “ _Well?”_ is enough to make Jon want to watch Daenerys’ worldview burn.

“He wasn’t my true father,” Jon says.

Varys’ hands slip apart in his lap. He must have always held his suspicions, because his jaw slackens as he looks at Jon with new appreciation, obviously already having worked out what Jon is here to say.

The intensity of his gaze is enough to make Jon lose his train of thought, and he stumbles through his sentence. “Bran saw in a vision – and Samwell read in a transcribed maester’s journal –“

His speech dies off. He wishes he could say that this display is for Daenerys’ benefit, but, really, he’s actually just _terrified._

Sansa had told him what she thinks Daenerys will do, but Sansa isn’t the one that has to face her right now and try and calm Daenerys down from burning the castle to the ground.

_Gods, Jon, just tell her._

“My real father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” Jon blurts, then unhelpfully adds, “your brother.”

Daenerys shoots to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. “Lies,” she hisses.

Varys stands as well, much more unsteady on his feet, and places a comforting hand on Daenerys arm. She shakes it off, but Varys pays little mind, and instead murmurs, “Lyanna Stark was your mother, wasn’t she?”

“They married,” Jon adds, because apparently he only knows how to say the wrong things. “I’m Rhaegar’s trueborn son.”

Jon’s skin pricks from the tension that suddenly stifles the room. He has the distinct urge to leave, to turn away from Daenerys glare, but he can’t. He has to push through this, has to see this through. It’s his responsibility now, to finish what he started.

“If this is true, that you would make you the rightful heir.”

Silence rings following Daenerys’ heated words.

Jon doesn’t bother to contradict her, to say what he thinks every time someone says that to him. That he _isn’t_ the rightful heir, that the Targaryen’s lost their claim to the Throne when the Baratheon’s won theirs through conquest.

But the ploy depends on him having a greater claim, so instead of that he says, “Aye. It does.”

“Let me make something perfectly clear,” Daenerys says slowly. “It is _my_ destiny to sit upon the Iron Throne, not yours. I was born to be Queen of Westeros, and I will be. Who else knows about this?”

“No one,” he says quickly. “Just Bran and Sam.”

“Not your _sister?”_ she spits.

“Neither of them know,” he says carefully. He wonders what Varys and Tyrion know of his relationship with Sansa; they’re smart men, they must suspect something.

Daenerys laughs hollowly. “You expect me to believe that? You expect me to believe that your manipulative and conniving _Sansa_ didn’t send you to Dragonstone to take my Throne from me?”

“ _I_ didn’t even know then,” Jon rebukes. He rubs his hand across his brow, then stands as well, to face Daenerys straight on. “So, here’s my proposal: I will announce my claim to the Throne, and renounce my position and publicly support _your_ claim to the Throne _if_ you grant the North independence.”

“Or, better yet, I’ll have Drogon burn Winterfell to the ground with you inside it and I’ll take the Kingdoms anyway.”

The room falls into silence yet again. Everyone knows she would do it, Jon thinks as he looks at everyone’s faces. Daenerys looks satisfied with the response, enough so that she sits back down, Varys following. Jon takes his seat again, too.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion starts anxiously, “perhaps we could come to a different compromise. If Jon wishes to announce his heritage, this may work in your favour. If you marry, and Jon takes the position of Prince Consort, you could still be Queen in your own right and have the benefit of launching a truly Targaryen Dynasty to last a thousand years.”

The proposition makes Jon feel sick to his stomach. He certainly doesn’t want to marry her, but he would sooner have Drogon burn him alive than be part of a Targaryen restoration that starts a Dynasty.

Daenerys cocks her head to the side, thoughtful. “I thought all family lost to me,” she says. “To marry another Targaryen . . . but you know I can’t have children, Tyrion. It would hardly be a _dynasty._ ”

“There are ways we could get around that, Your Grace,” Tyrion says. “Jon could sire a child with another woman and you could claim it as yours.”

“ _No,”_ Jon says forcefully. “No. I’d sooner keep the secret in exchange for independence than be part of that.”

Daenerys glares, and Jon feels suddenly exhausted. Gods. This conversation is going to last hours, he can already tell.

“Jon, I’m sure you can see why agreeing to Northern independence is not a desirable outcome for us,” Tyrion says.

Varys stays noticeably silent.

“It’s non-negotiable,” Jon retorts flatly. “And I’m not being part of any dynasty.”

“You’re not marrying _Sansa,”_ Daenerys says, before Tyrion can respond. All four men turn to her, startled, but Daenerys just rolls her eyes at them. “Oh, please, I know where this is going. No. You aren’t. And I think that you and she have been insubordinate enough to not warrant any favours from me, either. The North won’t be gaining its independence.”

“You couldn’t stop me,” Jon says. Davos stills beside him, placing a warning hand on his arm.

Jon shakes him off as Daenerys laughs and says, “I have dragons, Jon, I think I can. That’s about the most foolish thing you’ve ever said, and you’ve said a lot of stupid things.”

Jon rises to his feet, straightening his shoulders.

_But I was smart enough to trick you._

He doesn’t need to sit here and take this. Daenerys has less cards to play than she thinks she does.

“You have _a_ dragon,” Jon spits. “Rhaegal shifted his allegiance to _me,_ and, really, Daenerys, you _do_ know that Bran warged into Viserion during the Long Night, don’t you? If he can do that, surely you must know that he could warg in to Drogon.”

Daenerys stills suddenly, her mouth parted in shock. _You don’t have anything to say now, do you,_ he thinks darkly.

“And lest I remind you, I’m _King in the North._ Sansa has claim to the Riverlands, and the Vale will declare for her, you know they will. Between the two of us your Kingdoms are looking rather small, don’t you think?”

“You – you bent the knee,” Daenerys stutters. Good. She deserves to be taken down a peg or two.

“Well I actually was laying down at the time,” Jon snarks. “I don’t remember physically doing as such. And when I announce my claim, Daenerys, who do _you_ think the Kingdoms will rally behind? The man who has been here his whole life, who fought and died for the Night’s Watch, only to be reborn to help defeat the White Walkers; or the woman who comes from Essos, who has already proven herself to be as destructive as her father?”

Daenerys evidently has nothing to say that, and neither does Tyrion. Varys looks to Jon with a newfound respect, but Jon doesn’t care to try and decipher that at the moment. As silence continues, Jon takes his seat again. He’s made his point, he thinks, and Davos’ impressed nod only convinces him further of that.

“I don’t want to go to war with you, Daenerys,” Jon says finally.

“It sounds like you do,” she rebukes, obviously taking the opportunity to be difficult as it presents itself.

He glares at her, then continues, “In honour of our _alliance,_ the Northern forces and I will still come South to help you take the Throne, to pay back the debt of your coming to help _my_ Kingdom. But afterwards, we’re returning to our borders. Peacefully.”

Daenerys is obviously not pleased with this, because she rubs her hand across her downturned mouth. Short of threatening him again, there isn’t much she can say to his announcement. And even threatening him will get her nowhere, as he has thoroughly disproven her ability to do even that.

“If you announce your lineage, it will take on a life of it’s own,” Daenerys says finally. She doesn’t sound angry, like he expected, but desperate, almost. “The people _do_ love you. They don’t understand me. You can say you only want Northern independence all you want, but if the people know you have a stronger claim they would want you to rule.”

Tyrion takes the opportunity to nod in agreement. “As a gesture of goodwill in our new alliance, you must promise that you won’t announce your heritage.”

Jon hesitates. If no one knows that he isn’t a Stark, then he can’t marry Sansa.

Daenerys notices his hesitance and jumps on it eagerly. “Yes. Yes, that is my condition.”

From the way her eyes gleam, he can tell that she’s agreed to this stipulation for the same reason he doesn’t want it: Sansa.

It would be foolish of him not to agree. An easy and peaceful option is being handed to him, and his only reluctance lies with his own heart. The mark of a good ruler is his ability to put aside his own desire for the wellbeing of his people. He’s about to march the Northmen South to fight so soon after they last picked up their swords; he need not subject them to another battle afterwards.

“Aye,” he finally agrees. “I won’t announce it. And our betrothal is over.”

She purses her lips, but nods. After all, he may not be marrying her, but Jon isn’t sure how he could marry Sansa now, either.

Jon stands, and Davos does too. Daenerys stays seated, eyeing him with the harshness he’s come to associate with her. Varys leads them to the door, quiet and pensive, but Jon won’t even pretend he has the capabilities to deal with the other man. He’ll leave Varys’ form of politics to Sansa.

“There’s more Targaryen in you than you want there to be, Jon,” Daenerys calls to him, desperate for the last word. His hand clenches against the doorframe, but he doesn’t turn back. “After all, Stark’s don’t bed their sisters.”

 

Missandei

Missandei walks quickly through the halls of Winterfell from Lady Stark’s chambers, mind whirring.

 _The Queen didn’t even know I was bringing everyone inside until she was asked to share her rooms with you,_ Lady Stark had said.

 _Queen Daenerys doesn’t seem the type to beg,_ she’d said.

Missandei is . . . confused by this information. She has increasingly felt this way about Daenerys’ behavior the longer they’ve been North, but this just seems too outrageous to be true. Certainly, the Queen has seemed very . . . single minded about her goal, and Grey Worm had confessed to her his concern following the war council that Missandei hadn’t been invited to join.

But to outright lie to her? Missandei just doesn’t see how Queen Daenerys could.

She passes Jon and Davos in the hall as she approaches the Queen’s rooms. They look – well, Missandei isn’t sure how they look, but they both give her a tight smile as they pass.

She knows that they’d just had a meeting with the Queen, and Daenerys had confessed to her this morning that she’d hoped Jon was coming to extend a formal marriage proposal to her. Her cheeks had been flushed with delight at the prospect, and Missandei had giggled with her over their morning tea.

Missandei had felt uneasy over the Queen’s words, but she hadn’t been able to figure out why. Perhaps because Jon and the Queen had not seemed to be doing so well since being North, but Missandei now suspects that her concerns lay with something slightly more sinister.

The Queen’s chambers are tense when Missandei is bid to enter. When Daenerys see’s that it’s her, she stands and dismisses Varys and Tyrion, relief clear on her face.

“Oh, Missandei, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says as the door closes with Varys and Tyrion’s departure. “You would not believe the day I’m having.”

Missandei dismisses all thoughts of Lady Stark from her mind, and dutifully takes her seat opposite the Queen.

“Please, Your Grace, I’d love to hear.”

The words taste like ash in her mouth. Have their conversations always been like this? Has Missandei always felt so inferior?

 _She’s the Queen,_ Missandei reprimands herself lightly, _Of course I would defer to her._

“ _Jon_ is a Targaryen.” Daenerys laughs, like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, but Missandei doesn’t quite understand why it matters. Westerosi Houses have always seemed so unimportant to Daenerys, and Missandei has never bothered to learn that which doesn’t concern her Queen. At Missandei’s blank look, Daenerys elaborates. “ _Technically_ he’s higher in the line of succession than I am.”

“Oh. _Oh.”_ Missandei can feel her brows raise high in her surprise. “But . . . oh, so Jon will be King?”

This time it’s Daenerys who gives her a blank look. “Of course not. The Throne is my destiny. No, I’ve struck an accord with him. I’m to grant the North it’s independence from the crown in exchange for Jon never announcing his lineage. They would choose him over me, and I won’t let that happen. The Throne is _my_ birthright.”

Missandei is perplexed by this logic. Did Daenerys not just say that Jon is higher in line? Would the Throne not technically be his birthright then?

 _It’s the Queen’s destiny,_ Missandei tells herself. _That’s more important than birthright. Even if the people would choose him._

But Missandei is no fool, and she would be ashamed of herself if she didn’t clarify what the Queen means when she says she would not let the people have a choice.

“I don’t understand,” Missandei admits quietly, her hands folded in her lap. “You’ve come to liberate Westeros from Cersei. If they choose Jon, is that not their ultimate liberation?”

“Oh, my sweet Missandei,” Daenerys says kindly. Missandei feels entirely chastised, but she isn’t sure why she should. “They would only choose him because he’s a man.”

 _Or because they don’t want a woman from a different land. Because Jon knows them, and would lead them as faithfully as he has done since I’ve known him._ As far as Missandei can tell, the only betrayal of his people he has ever committed is bending the knee to Daenerys.

“No, they just don’t understand yet,” the Queen continues. “I will make them understand. And no one need ever know that Jon is a Targaryen.”

It feels like forever ago that Missandei had stood on the stairs at Dragonstone as Jon and Davos approached her.

“ _And she would let you leave?”_ Jon had asked. “ _If you wanted to?”_

 _“Of course,”_ Missandei had replied.

But does she have a choice? Has Daenerys taken away Missandei’s choice, like she is so easily taking away every Westerosi’s?

“My Queen,” Missandei says after a moment. Her fingers wring together, but Daenerys is taking a large drink from her cup, and so doesn’t notice. “I was wondering . . . Grey Worm and I were thinking we’d like to go to Naath, after the wars are over.”

Daenerys sets her cup down, and tilts her head. “You’d leave my side?” she asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “Why?”

Her stomach twists uncomfortably, like she’s had a bad plate of food.

“We’d hoped to find some peace.”

Daenerys smiles at that, and waves her hand. “Nonsense. There will be peace once I’ve taken the Kingdoms. You’ll have no reason to leave. Now, Jon has been tempted from my bed, but I was thinking that if I braid only half my hair . . .”

Daenerys’ voice is drowned out by the ringing in Missandei’s ears.

_Mhysa is a master._

_Mhysa is a master._

_Mhysa is a master._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> idk what to say. the smut. the plot. the tension. i just. oof. 
> 
> i hope you liked it and i'll see ya'll in a couple weeks with The Bells.


	6. The Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for waiting! this chapter presented some unique challenges - as this story in general is honestly - and i appreciate you all waiting patiently while i'm trying to work my way through this. this story has grown so much from what i originally intended, and it's certainly the most complex thing i've ever tried to tackle. 
> 
> thank you so much for your support, and i really hope that you enjoy this one!

 

Sansa

Sansa can’t help but laugh at the dour pout on Jon’s face as he finishes telling her what happened with Daenerys.

“Wait, wait,” she giggles, covering her mouth with her hand.

Jon glares at her, and it makes her laugh even more. “It isn’t funny,” he hisses. “I agreed not to reveal my parentage. How are we supposed to marry as _siblings?”_

Sansa laughs again, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Jon,” she says through her laughter. “Oh gods, this is so funny. Genuinely, stop, you’re making my stomach hurt!”

“ _What_ is so funny?” he exclaims, standing up in his frustration. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging on the ends of it.

Sansa takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. He looks genuinely stressed, and she’s only making it worse.

“ _Jon,_ my darling, one of the things that I adore the most about you is your honesty and integrity, but, truly, it stops you from seeing the obvious sometimes.”

He scowls at her, but Sansa hadn’t meant any offence. She softens her approach, because she can see that she’s only making him more agitated.

Sansa stands as well, running her hands over his shoulders. She takes his face in her hands, a soft smile on her face.

“You promised _you_ wouldn’t reveal your parentage,” she tells him. “I made no such promise.”

He blinks heavily, once, and his eyes go glassy, and then refocus on her. “Oh,” he breathes.

Sansa buries her forehead in the curve of his collarbone, trying not to laugh again. Jon slings his arms around her waist; she hears him chuckle slightly, too, and she knows he’s got it now.

“I wish I could say that that was a stroke of my own brilliance,” he says thoughtfully, “but I think it was actually just her lack of insight.”

Sansa takes his face between her hands and gives him a fierce kiss. She nips his bottom lip between her teeth, hooking her finger underneath the leather of his sword belt to pull his hips into hers. “Let’s just say it’s both, hm?”

Jon grins at her, a wicked sort of smile, and lets her lead him further into her chambers and to her bed.

 

The night before Jon is set to leave, the castle is significantly emptier. Daenerys and her forces had left the day before, starting the long march to White Harbour, and it’s like the castle has let out it’s breath with her departure.

The tension in Sansa’s shoulders has released itself, too, and she enjoys it while it lasts.

She suddenly finds herself with much less to do during the day, the disputes she’s been settling for weeks suddenly not happening any longer now one party has gone, the grumbling from the lord’s lessened now that the reason for their displeasure has disappeared, and the rebuilding already started and needing little guidance from her now that plans have been finalized.

The most stressful thing she does all day is talking with Wynfred about the food stores – and it’s so stressful it makes a headache start to pound – but Jon catches her wrist as she leaves the kitchen and leads her to a storage room so he can kiss her senseless.

Sansa emerges a giggling mess, feeling like the young girl that she had little opportunity to be, and her headache receded.

Despite Jon’s lighthearted protests, they take their supper in the Hall with the Lords and the people, and then she retires alone to her chambers. Sansa takes her bath, then dresses in her nightdress and sits by the fire to wait.

Dawn and Jenny curl around each in front of the flames, while Lomas wanders through the solar at his own leisure; Sansa keeps track of him by listening to his curious sniffs and padding feet.

By the time the door opens quietly with Jon’s arrival, Sansa has taken to biting the nail on her thumb, something she hasn’t done since the earliest of her memories: her mother chastising her for it.

Despite his enthusiasm during the day, Jon is just as subdued as she is when he enters. He takes a seat beside her, hand entwining with hers. Ghost walks in behind him, doing a lap around the room, then winds himself around the sleeping Dawn and Jenny.

Sansa smiles down at them, taking each of Jon’s fingers in her opposite hand, tracing the length of them, smoothing over his callouses. They sit in silence for long enough that the fire starts to get low.

Jon stands to tend to it, adding logs and poking around for a moment, and when he turns back to her he stops, standing completely still as he stares down at her, the strangest look passing over his face.

Her lips part under his intensity.

Jon kneels in front of her, eyes dropping from hers to follow his fingers as they gently circle her arm.

When he looks back up at her again, Sansa is surprised to see his eyes glazed with tears.

“I love you,” he tells her, quietly, on a choked breath. “More than anything.”

Sansa’s heart squeezes painfully hard in her chest, her own love for him consuming her, though tainted by the somber cloud over their heads’ which is his departure tomorrow.

It compels her to lean forward, lips brushing over his in such a delicate manner that it could not be construed as even remotely sexual; no, instead it is a display of unconditional love that could not be expressed with words.

Sansa feels almost like heat is unfurling in her chest, but that is not entirely accurate. Instead, it’s almost like a giddiness; it’s the gentle breeze on a summer afternoon; it’s peace; it’s her hopes and dreams as a child finally being realized in the most unexpected of ways.

Jon kisses her back just as gently, just as profoundly.

Eyes still closed, Jon pulls back from her to nuzzle his nose into her temple and behind her ear, his beard tickling her cheek.

It’s incredibly endearing, if not slightly odd; Ghost used to this exact thing while Jon was on Dragonstone.

Jon gets back up on the lounge beside her, and they tangle themselves together, laying down on the soft cushion chest to chest, nose to nose.

“When I get back,” Jon whispers softly, chest rumbling, “I’m never leaving Winterfell again.”

Sansa presses herself tighter to him, kissing him, then tucking her head under his chin. Her fingers pick at a piece of thread coming loose from his jerkin as dread beings to unfurl in her stomach.

 

Jon

Jon clenches his gloves between his fists. Sansa is asleep in her bed in front of him, her beautiful red hair fanned out on the pillow behind her, her hands curled together under her chin and her knees held to her chest.

He’d brought his clothes here last night, so that he could linger with her as long as possible. He’ll go down to the Hall to break his fast with his contingent of men, and likely Sansa will join him there before he leaves; but if she doesn’t he knows she’ll see them off in the courtyard – but a farewell in front of the men will be nothing like what they can give each other in private.

In any case, there is a fear that is sitting deep in his gut, a fear that he’s been living with for so long that he sometimes forgets that it’s there. His fear of death had been eased for a short after he _actually_ died, when he’d had nothing to live for, when he’d decided to abandon the Watch and go South to try and warm his iced bones and soul. Sansa’s arrival at Castle Black had sparked not only new life, new purpose, but it had restored in him that old fear which plagued all of humanity.

Now that he has everything he ever wanted in life – a place in Winterfell, a kind and beautiful lady wife by his side (that he intends to make his _lawful_ wife soon enough), and the promise of creating a Stark family – he is absolutely terrified that it will be taken from him, before he gets the opportunity to truly enjoy it.

That like so many Stark men before him, he will go South never to return.

It makes him feel cold.

Jon stands from his seat, dropping his gloves where he just sat. He moves to stand beside Sansa, then kneels to the ground. He runs his fingers through the smooth silk of her hair, then ghosts them over the slope of her cheekbone.

Jon feels like he only just did this – well, not just feels like, he only just _did_. He only just stood in the courtyard as the Night King bore down on them, only just took Sansa in his arms and whispered to her that he loves her, only just feared that he might not live through the next battle.

He’s so fucking tired of it. As a child he had longed for the glory of battle, but now he never wants to face a foe again. He would die happy if it were in his bed.

But that isn’t how his life has played out. Such peace has never been in the cards for him, not when he was a bastard of Eddard Stark and certainly not now he’s a trueborn Targaryen. Peace exists in these in between moments with Sansa, and Jon can’t help but feel like he won’t ever have it again.

The gods must think this funny, his life a joke, Jon decides. To have all his desires be denied to him as a child, the whole time actually being a hidden prince. Priceless to them, surely. He must not have suffered enough beyond the Wall; that’s why they brought him back from death. To watch him fall in love with his sister, to watch him refrain from touching her because of their blood relation and to then watch him unknowingly bed his aunt; to hand him everything he ever dreamed of, only to force him to leave it behind.

There can be no other explanation for the injustices of it. The gods think his agony funny.

Not for the first time, Jon wonders what would happen if he cast his duty aside and stayed here with Sansa; or, better yet, if he whisked her away, somewhere north, beyond the Wall, or maybe east, somewhere warm.

How far he has come, to seriously consider such a thing.

Did he ruin her, or did she ruin him?

Does it matter, he wonders, thinking of his mother and father and everything they razed in _their_ ruin of each other.

He must be better than those before him, or else what is the point of it all? What was the point of Rhaegar being his father, of his pack being betrayed and scattered to the wind, of being brought back to life, of beating the Night King - if not to do better, be better, to not make the same mistakes, and keep his family and people safe.

So he must go. Not just for duty, though he is duty bound also, but because this is an act of love, too. This is how he saves everyone, how he keeps them safe and protected.

The silence lingers in the peace of early morning as he traces the outline of Sansa’s lips.

Sansa’s eyes blink open blearily, taking him in. He can see the moment she realizes what’s going on. Her eyes harden and her lips turn down from the peace they’d been set in before; Jon presses a kiss to them in the hope of seeing such displeasure disappear.

“Are you going?”

Jon nods, clenching the furs at the edge of the bed. “It’s still early, but I’m going to go to the stables, and then the deployment, to check everything is lined up.”

Sansa nods, then sits up. Jon rests his cheek on her knees, unable to help himself from taking the opportunity to stay longer. He doesn’t know how to leave. It had been hard enough to brace himself for it last time, to find the strength within himself to leave Sansa behind, leave Winterfell behind, but now that it’s . . . now that she’s . . .

Leaving feels impossible.

“I don’t want to make this harder for you,” Sansa says. Her hands start to run through his hair; his eyes close at the soothing feel of her gentle tugs and nails scraping against his scalp. “And to say our goodbye’s would be . . .”

“ _Please,”_ he begs, desperate suddenly, hands curling around her calves, “don’t make me say goodbye.”

Her hands tighten in his hair for a moment, painfully so, and then release. “No goodbyes,” she agrees. “I need you to come home, Jon. No matter what. Come home.”

_Protect our home._

_Until my dying breath._

“No matter what.”

When he catches a glimpse of her later, in the Hall, it’s like he’s dying all over again. The cold knife is sliding through his ribs again, his heart is seizing and trying desperately to keep beating despite knowing how futile it is again, and his throat is closing with hopelessness again.

Sansa catches his eye for a second, and gives him the smallest of smiles, but it’s enough to bring his stuttering heart to life again. Heat unfurls in his chest, the same heat that had bloomed the day Sansa had ridden into Castle Black, and Jon is struck with the sudden conviction to do exactly what needs to be done.

He returns her soft smile, and when it’s finally time for him to leave, when Sansa stands in the courtyard, his carriage ready and waiting for him behind him, he longs to stay by her side forever – and leaving for now is how he makes that happen.

Underneath their thick and heavy cloaks, it would be difficult to see just how tightly he holds her to him, just how low his fingers drag across the wool of her dress, just how he nudges his foot against hers. Sansa presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, which would be inappropriate if everyone knew he weren’t her sibling, but they don’t, so it isn’t – even if people hold their suspicions anyway – and he runs his thumbs over the jut of her hipbones briefly before he pulls away.

“I’ll see you once these wars are over,” he tells her, a promise that he’ll come back after he ushers peace into the realm.

“Yes,” she agrees. “You will. Even if I have to march on King’s Landing myself.”

“It won’t come down to that.”

“I pray that you’re right,” she tells him, then lowers her voice so no-one will hear her say, “but trust that I would _never_ leave you there. If something happens, I will come for you.”

As he looks over her, his fierce Northern Queen, he can picture her as the child he didn’t even say goodbye to sitting in the Red Keep, waiting for her family to ride south and save her. When did she realise that no one was coming for her? How many years did she sit in her prison-bedroom and stare out the window and imagine her brother fighting for her? Did she hope that _he_ would come for her?

She wants to be the hero that no one ever was for her.

He wants to kiss her right then and there, but instead he squeezes her gloved hand in his, and sweeps his gaze over her again. One of these days, he’ll be leaving her bed in the morning because he’s gone to get the food to break their fast; one of these days, he’ll be saying goodbye to her and he’ll be able to kiss her lips; one of these days, he’ll be leaving the castle gates because he’s gone with a hunting party to fill the store.

When he steps into the carriage, Davos is already inside waiting for him.

Davos jerks his chin towards him. “I know we’re in the cabin ‘cuz of your leg, but I’m fuckin’ glad I’m not riding a horse on the Kingsroad for six weeks.”

Jon says nothing, just settles into his seat, tugging his cloak so it sits comfortably on his shoulders.

Davos jerks his head again, this time to the door of the cabin that Jon closed behind him. “I hope you gave her a better goodbye than that earlier.”

Jon pauses his readjustments to lift disbelieving eyes to his Hand. “Say something like that again and you _will_ be riding for six weeks.”

Davos only smiles, a small, knowing smile. Jon ignores him, warning dispensed, and rests his head back against the cabin walls as the carriage starts to move. He knows Sansa will likely go to the battlements and watch his contingent ride out over the horizon, and if he were on a horse he would have sat with his head turned back towards Winterfell until the castle had disappeared in the hills.

He’ll back soon. Nothing could stop him.

 

At the time, Jon had been confident in his decision to not make love to Sansa before they lawfully wed. Now, with Winterfell six weeks march behind him and Dragonstone looming before him, he wishes he’d taken the opportunity to be inside her when he’d had the chance.

His hip still twinges, despite it being two moons since the Long Night, and Jon knows that the carriage afforded him time to heal that he desperately needed. It still isn’t enough, however, and he dreads landing on these shores. Daenerys won’t want to wait to take the capital, and he knows he hasn’t yet taken an appropriate amount of time to heal, not with how long that wound is.

As his rowboat lands on the sand of Dragonstone, he can’t help but wonder if it will be taken from him again. When his foot touches the land of his family’s seat, a dull thud of pain suddenly throbs in his shoulder, completely overshadowing that thought.

He rolls his shoulder, frowning, but the pain of it opens up a well of emotion: fear, and isolation, and anger. Jon hadn’t even realized that these secondary emotions had disappeared slowly since Daenerys had left two days before him, her dragons circling in the sky, and as the distance between them had lengthened his connection had waned.

But they’re back now, stronger than before, and Jon can feel that something has gone seriously wrong.

Rhaegal.

He’s been hurt.

Jon hurries up the beach, determined to find out what’s happened to his dragon, but he’s stopped, suddenly, by the appearance of Varys.

Jon rears back, surprised that he’d missed the man’s presence in his haste.

Varys is looking at him, and even Jon can see the calculating look on his face.

“Your Grace,” he greets, obviously testing to see what Jon will do.

Jon settles back on his feet, squaring his shoulders, hand resting on Longclaw’s pommel.

“I do hope you mean that as a deference to the King in the North,” Jon says, “and not in the way I think you mean.”

Varys quirks a tiny smile. “Fortunately for the people, Your Grace, I _do_ mean it in that way.”

If there’s anything Jon had learnt from Sansa, it is that it’s better to keep quiet if you can’t lie. So he just raises a brow at the other man, waiting for him to speak first.

Varys sighs, hands shifting on his stomach. “I must admit, I found it difficult to establish my little birds in the North,” Varys says. Jon isn’t sure what he means by little birds exactly, but he knows what Varys does as a Master of Whispers, and that’s enough to fill in the blanks. “The people are more loyal to Lady Stark than I think you are aware. I promised them money, but it meant little in comparison to the shelter she provided during the Long Night and the storm, to the food she still offers. I can’t help but wonder how much longer Winterfell can afford such strain upon it’s wares, but, somehow, that mattered little to them.”

Jon remains silent, weary eyes on him.

“She would make a good Queen.”

Jon agrees, wholeheartedly, and he intends to make her one.

Varys eyes flit over his face. “You would make a good King.”

Jon wets his lips, letting his tongue cluck against the roof of his mouth. His gaze drifts from Varys’ stony visage and to the towering castle high above them.

“I don’t need you to be my Kingmaker,” Jon says finally.

“No,” Varys agrees, “I think you already have one.”

Jon’s eyes flick back to Varys. “What do you want?” Jon demands with a flat tone, belying just impatient he is.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Varys says, “to serve the people. I’m always looking for the best way to do that.”

Jon purses his lips, hand clenching around his sword. He lowers his voice, though he knows that he and Varys have already said enough to be damning if anyone has overheard them.

“And suddenly you’ve realized that you chose the wrong Queen for it?”

His tone is terse and tight, anxious to be discussing such treason right at the step of Daenerys’ castle. He knows what Daenerys does to men who speak against her.

Varys, however, has no such compunction, as only a man playing a desperate gamble cannot.

“I’ve realized that there is a choice at all.”

Jon shifts on his feet, finally dropping his hands by his side. Jon thinks that the man must have come to the same conclusion as Sansa; that it’s not a promise broken when Jon only said that _he_ wouldn’t announce his heritage. Or perhaps Varys just doesn’t give a shit at all.

That seems more like it.

Jon pushes past him, then pauses, shoulders bunched tight. He can’t let the secret get out. If it gets out, Daenerys will think he spread it, will think he broke his oath, and she’ll quickly punish not only him but Sansa and the North, too. Varys doesn’t care about Sansa, or the million people in the North; he cares about the greater good, and there are a greater amount of people in King’s Landing alone than in the North. The numbers make sense to Varys, to sacrifice the North for the rest of the continent.

It seems like something Varys would do, to spread his parentage, gamble with the fate of a million people, just to make sure that Jon would be the next King.

“If you speak to me about this again, or you share what you know,” Jon says, voice carefully cold and detached as he looks over his shoulder, “I’ll tell her it was you. She’ll have you burnt alive.”

“You think I wouldn’t sacrifice myself for the realm?” Varys asks, though Jon can see that he’s dished no idle threat. Varys is scared by the prospect of facing Daenerys’ wrath, as he should be. As Jon himself has been.

“I think that you wouldn’t if you weren’t sure it would pay off. Have a good morning, Lord Varys.”

As Jon makes his way up the long winding path to the castle, Unsullied lined along it, each step brings with it a foreboding dread. Something has seriously gone wrong down here, and he’s scared to find out what.

Rhaegal is alive, Jon is sure, because he thinks their connection would have severed completely if he weren’t. Jon is fairly sure their weak bond over the past six weeks has been a fault of his own, of denying it instead of welcoming it, but it may have been Rhaegal, as well. Jon can imagine that a wild creature such as a dragon would wish to be bound to no master.

Jon isn’t sure what to do about that. He can’t let a dragon – or two – roam freely. They’re too dangerous (with or without a master), but Jon has always been too empathetic, too emotional. He’s felt what Rhaegal feels now, he understands that abandonment, that betrayal, and he doesn’t want to be another master that lets him down.

But what is Jon to do? He can’t condemn Daenerys for her power and then let her weapons be free - or worse, take that power for himself and pretend that he is better than her because he has a different sense of right and wrong. No, half the reason he is so distrusting of her is because she thinks that her morality is absolute and she can punish those who go against her. Jon is under no illusion that his sense of morals is any better than hers. He would be no better than her if he were to take those dragons and put them to his own use, whatever that may be.

If Rhaegal and Drogon weren’t living beings, he would have no hesitation in ruining such power so no one else could get their hands on it. But they are living things, instinctual beings with no capacity for right or wrong, and he can’t blame them for following orders.

Yet another terrible decision that will fall upon his burdened shoulders.

But first he needs to know what’s actually happened to them.

The doors to Dragonstone are opened for him. He expects Daenerys to be in the war room, going over the plans for their siege, but she isn’t. He almost rolls his eyes at himself; of _course_ she’s in her Throne Room. How silly of him to assume she’d actually be making herself useful.

Jon doesn’t mean to be so bitter, but he’s been marching south for longer than he was home at Winterfell, now. He misses it, misses the snow, misses Sansa. It’s making him irritable and easily provoked.

Daenerys eyes him coldly as he enters, as she had every time he’d seen her since they struck their deal. It’s been six weeks now since they’ve seen each other, and if anything, she’s only cooled further towards him.

“Your Grace,” he greets.

He doesn’t bend to one knee, like he would if she were his monarch. Instead, he meets her as an equal, his Hand by his side. Unlike the last time, however, he’s not come to beg, to bargain. _She’s_ the one who has to convince _him_ to stay.

She doesn’t return this favour of the title, but she also doesn’t insult him by calling him a Lord. Instead, she stays silent and watches him as he approaches.

She doesn’t ask about his journey, and he doesn’t ask about hers. Instead, he asks a more pressing question.

“What happened to Rhaegal?”

Daenerys’ lip curls over her teeth.

Tyrion steps forward hesitantly, eyeing his Queen. “We were ambushed on our return,” he says quietly. “By the Iron Fleet.”

“Enough, Tyrion,” Daenerys snaps, standing, hands clasped before her stomach. “No need to go over yet another of your mistakes.”

Jon steps towards her. “Is he alive?”

“Like you _care_?” she spits. “Don’t pretend. You will _never_ love my children like I do. You aren’t a Targaryen like I am. They are _not_ loyal to you, and whatever connection you think you have with _my_ child does not exist.”

Jon blinks. He should let it go. He shouldn’t let her provoke him like this; he’s already angry with the situation, with her, which only makes him more volatile, and so it would be foolish to let his anger consume him.

But –

He just doesn’t care.

“Like _I_ care?” he demands harshly, stepping forward again. Grey Worm, who stands to the side with his guards, wearily step forward as well. Jon stops his approach, but not his words. “As if _you_ do – as if you see them as anything more than a means to an end? As if you _use_ them as anything more than a way to take what you think is yours?”

“They are my children,” she snarls at him.

“If you treated them as such, I’m sure Rhaegal wouldn’t have shifted allegiance to the first person he could as soon as the opportunity presented itself.”

“They’re with _me,_ not you!”

Jon shrugs, because he knows it will infuriate her. “Okay, Daenerys, whatever you say.”

Dragon roar makes the stone shake, makes dust fall from the ceiling. Daenerys doesn’t blink, while the others in the room crouch down instinctively. Jon doesn’t, but he isn’t as unaffected by Daenerys; he flinches at first, then glances up to the ceiling as Drogon roars again.

“Fire and blood, isn’t it?” Jon says, looking back to her. “Isn’t that your House words?”

“ _Our_ House words.”

“I’m either a Targaryen or I’m not, Daenerys, make up your mind.”

Davos steps up beside him, and puts a hand on his arm, but Jon can already see that he’s pushed too much. Daenerys’ face is red, her hands shaking, and briefly Jon wonders if she would turn Drogon’s fire on her own Keep. She has no reason to fear for her own life, and he’s seen her have little value for her people’s lives, but he knows that she does value her land, her possessions. He doesn’t think she would raze Dragonstone, because it’s all she has left.

Jon looks down to Tyrion, who is looking between he and Daenerys anxiously.

He nods at Jon once. “We’ll reconvene later, in the War Room,” Tyrion says. “Before supper.”

Jon nods, then in an effort to be diplomatic even though he’s not been so far, he nods at Daenerys as well and parts with a, “Your Grace.”

He and Davos turn from the room to leave. The door thuds closed behind him, and Davos gives him a quick glare.

“Did you completely forget everything we talked about on the way here? That wasn’t keeping her calm.” Davos pauses, then almost as an afterthought, adds, “Your Grace.”

Jon knows that he was fucking stupid in there, and he’s sure that later he’ll have more regret over it. For now, however, he’s going to go to his rooms and pretend that it’s his chambers in Winterfell, like he did for so many moons last time.

 

When it comes time to meet Daenerys and her council in the War Room, Jon doesn’t feel any calmer, but he’s certainly determined not to stoke Daenerys’ ire any more.

It was really stupid of him to do that. Sure, Rhaegal likely wouldn’t burn Winterfell, and likely it would take Drogon long enough to fly North for Bran to see what was going on and warg in to him, but he’s not just playing a short term game anymore. He’s playing a longer game now; Daenerys is going to be Queen of the Six Kingdoms, and the North may be independent but it isn’t self-sustaining. They’ll need to trade with the rest of the continent, the people will need to be able to cross the border, and Jon certainly doesn’t need a border war with an expanding Daenerys after this all over.

Daenerys isn’t the type to forget slights, to let go of grudges.

Daenerys hasn’t arrived yet when he walks in, but Varys is sitting quietly, staring out over the table map, and Tyrion is hovering by King’s Landing, staring out over the map as well.

“My Lords,” Jon greets them both.

“Your Grace,” they both reply. Varys even stands up and bows his head.

Jon waves them both off, then comes to stand beside Tyrion.

“She’ll be here shortly,” Tyrion says quietly, turning back to the map.

Jon doesn’t say anything. They’ll likely get more done without her, and probably come up with a good plan, too, but it doesn’t matter, really, because everything has to be finalized through Daenerys anyway. They’d just be wasting their time by coming up with a detailed strategy now.

But as the minutes drag on, Jon starts to get extremely restless. He can’t help but reach out to the pieces, prodding them with his fingers, moving his Northmen pieces to the Gate of the Gods, where the Kingsroad leads directly through the city and to the Keep. He moves around to tap against Yara’s fleet stationed at the Iron Islands. No, that’s silly; Euron has many more ships than Yara. They’ll be of no use, even if she’s still alive. They’ll need a way to neutralize the ships . . .

The door opens, Daenerys entering, Grey Worm and Missandei behind her. Grey Worm is stoic, and Missandei looks paler, thinner, than the last time he saw her, but it is Daenerys that draws his eye – her intention, he’s sure. She clad in a deep red dress, cut lowly across her chest, with a white and red hooded cloak draped over the top. Her hair is completely down, very different to her usual style.

It all makes Jon feel a little sick, truthfully. This is a show for him, maybe a way to tempt him to her bed – not fucking happening – or maybe it’s supposed to be a _fuck you, this is what you’re missing out on_ which, well. He doesn’t even have anything to say to that for how little he desires her.

He turns back to the table, frowning, and Daenerys comes to stand beside him. Not too closely, thank gods, but close enough that he can smell –

Cinnamon.

What. The. _Fuck._

All eyes in the room turn to him, wide eyed and startled, and Jon realizes he’s said that aloud. He doesn’t take it back, though, and no one prompts him to explain, which he’s glad for because if they did he thinks that he might just explode with rage.

Jon clenches his hand by his side, his leather gloves creaking, then releases his fist.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Daenerys says, her eyes scanning the table from top to bottom. “I have little need for a detailed plan. I first will burn Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, in retribution for his ambush.”

Davos had told Jon in hushed tones on their way here what he’d learnt that afternoon; that as Daenerys and her fleet had returned to Dragonstone, Euron had been waiting and had fired his scorpions upon the dragons and her ships. The ships are mostly destroyed, and Rhaegal has been injured severely; a bolt in his shoulder, where Jon had felt the pain as he’d stepped on the shore.

“Then I will take the city and the Keep, and show everyone in King’s Landing who their rightful Queen is.”

Jon half expects her to go on about how they’ll bow before her mighty power, but she doesn’t; instead, she just looks across the map, satisfied.

He wonders only for a brief moment how she means to _take_ the city, but he needn’t wonder long. The memory of Drogon’s roar making the Dragonstone Keep shudder is still fresh and alarming; she’d burnt everything of the Lannister army, and he’s watched her have to be talked out of burning King’s Landing before.

They have little hope of convincing her of stopping such a thing now. He knows her fingers twitch with her desire to let loose her control, knows she aches to see the people bow down to her, and she’s long past caring whether that be due to admiration and loyalty or fear and subjugation.

Still, he won’t just stand here and let that be her plan. He can’t. It scrapes and pulls against his soul and makes every fibre of his being burn with the desire to stop her.

“I would like to speak with Queen Daenerys,” Jon says, fingers twitching. “Alone, please.”

Daenerys purses her lips tighter, but nods to her advisors.

Davos hesitates, but Jon gives him a reassuring if thin smile. He won’t fuck this up, he promises with his eyes. Davos nods as well, then follows the other four out of the room.

Daenerys sits down in the only chair in the room: a large, throne-like chair that has it’s back facing the open windows that look out over the sea. The back of the chair shrouds Daenerys’ face in darkness. Even so, he can see her run her finger over her bottom lip as she stares at him.

“The dress hasn’t enticed you to me, then?” she asks with a quirk to her lips.

“Neither has the scent,” he replies quickly, flatly. He doesn’t even know when Daenerys had stood close enough to Sansa to identify the smell that clings to her skin, but obviously she has because she emulates it now.

“I wondered if you’d notice that,” she says, almost like she was genuinely curious.

Dealing with her constantly shifting mood will be the death of him, he swears it. He can never tell how she’ll deal with him. Will she threaten him the moment he steps in to the room, like this afternoon when he’d arrived, or will she don a pretty dress in the hopes that he’ll tumble into bed with her?

Jon steps closer to the table, letting his eyes linger to the North, on Winterfell for a moment, then he turns his gaze down to the south. His fingers drag over the engraving of King’s Landing, thinking of the million people that live there, the value of their lives. They deserve to have someone do everything in their power to save them.

“You’re not the first Targaryen I’ve met, you know,” he says, hand dropping to his side. “I knew Aemon Targaryen, your great uncle. He served at the Night’s Watch as our maester.”

Daenerys doesn’t reply, but he knows she’s intent upon his words by the way her hand tightens it’s grip on her armrest. He understands that feeling. Of desperately wishing to know as much as possible about a family lost to you.

“He told me . . . he told me that a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Do you believe that?”

She clenches her jaw, then lets the tension go. “My brother raised me,” she says slowly, eyes going distant and focusing on the far wall. “I never knew anything different, but I grew up with his stories about our family, and our greatness. The Targaryen Dynasty sounded like a sight to behold. We were stronger together, before the Dance of Dragons.”

She doesn’t say anything more for a long moment, and when she does her eyes focus back on him. “No,” she answers finally, resolutely. “No, my brother used me, he tried to sell me. Blood meant nothing to him, and I’ve done great things without him. It was a terrible thing to be together.”

Jon shakes his head slowly. “I think maester Aemon was wrong, too. I think that it’s a terrible thing for _anyone_ to be alone. We make bad decisions when we’re isolated, when we think we have nothing, no _one_ to lose.” Jon pauses and sighs, rubbing his hand across the bridge of his nose. “We once stood on these beaches and you asked my opinion on how to take Westeros. Do you remember what I said?”

Her eyes are intent upon his: does she not remember, or does she not want to answer?

Finally, she parts her lips, and replies, “You told me that if I take the city with my dragons, then I’m not breaking the wheel. I’m just more of the same.”

Jon turns his back to the table, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s still true. No matter what you think of me now, no matter how our relationship has devolved, that will always be true.”

She raises a brow. “You expect me to believe anything you say? To break the wheel, I have to take the Throne from Cersei. This is the fastest way I do that.”

“Daenerys.” His voice is emotional, choked, as he think’s that the people deserve someone better than him, someone who could have put their desire aside to keep the ruse going. “The Throne _is_ the wheel.”

“ _No_ ,” she says, vehemently. “No, it’s a way for terrible people to abuse those below them. I wouldn’t do that. For me, it’s a way to _help_ them.”

“But how do you help them?” he presses. “How do you know what’s right?”

If the thought makes her feel pause, she doesn’t show it. Instead she instantly replies, “I just do. I know how to help people.”

“I used to think the same thing,” Jon says softly. “I died thinking I was doing the right thing. I thought that bringing the Wildings past the Wall was the right thing. And, you know, I don’t regret doing that. Bringing them south was the only way to keep them safe, keep them alive. But if I’d been smarter, I wouldn’t have just ignored everyone and done what I wanted, what I thought was right. Making my word law didn’t make it any easier to bring the Wildings south. It just got me killed.”

Daenerys’ expression softens as well. She stands and comes to stand beside him. He hopes he’s gotten through to her. Jon desperately wants to see a glimpse of what everyone else see’s in her; he will take any excuse to not have this end the way he thinks it will. He doesn’t want to have to kill her, despite their animosities, despite how much he’s come to resent her.

If he can stay her hand, then he might be able to stay his own.

But then she speaks, and his eyes snap up to hers, hope draining from him as quickly as it came. Simply, she says, “The difference between you and I, Jon, is that I have dragons. I wouldn’t have gotten killed.”

 

Arya

Jaime went in to the Red Keep weeks ago.

Arya’s not fucking surprised that whatever half-assed plan he went in there with got fucked up.

Jaime hadn’t told her why he had travelled with them, but Arya knows that he came South on her sister’s orders. Arya finds it hard to believe that Sansa could have trusted Jaime with whatever task she’s given him – to kill Cersei, likely, but that seems a little simple for Sansa’s taste. Arya suspects it’s something deeper, but Jaime has been in the Keep for weeks now, and Arya’s not heard a single person whisper that the Queen is dead.

So Arya isn’t surprised that Jaime has fucked it up. She expected nothing less, as unreliable as he is. He’d caught up with her and the Hound somewhere around the Neck, only a week after they’d left the Inn they’d stayed at during the snow storm. He’d given a half hearted attempt to convince her to turn her horse North and go back to Winterfell, which she’d not even responded to because his conviction had been so lacking, but the further south they’d ridden, the more vehement his argument became.

Eventually, King’s Landing had risen in the distance, and the memory of her father’s beheading came to her so strongly and suddenly that she’d pulled her horse to a stop.

Jaime had looked at her, face ashen, and said, “Turn back, Arya. While you still can. Go back to your family.”

The Hound had said nothing, eyes trained fiercely upon the capital. His vengeance tinted eye had been what spurned Arya on; he pushed forth with his revenge, and Arya would, too. They’d holed up in a little inn, close to the Keep’s walls, so that Arya could start to learn the guards rotation, could remember the twists and turns of the Keep’s halls, to decide the best way to get in and out.

The Hound had stayed with her, out of a misplaced sense of guidance, she assumes, and Jaime had as well, but only for a day or two. He’d told her bits and pieces of what he’d been coming to do on their way South, and muttered a few more things while they’d been at the inn, but then he’d disappeared in the dead of night on the third day, and Arya’s not heard from him since.

But now Arya is out of time. Daenerys’ camp is mostly established outside the walls, and the Northmen have blocked all roads leading in and out of the city. Either the siege will take place soon, or Cersei will send her army out to meet them. Either way, battle is coming, and Arya needs to move her arse and get this done.

So why can’t she just fucking do it?

The rising sun finally brings light into the musty room. Her candle has burnt down almost completely, and soon enough it will smother itself, so the sun has come at an appropriate time.

The snows still aren’t sticking down here, but Arya knows winter still rages harshly in the North, despite the destruction of the Night King. It won’t be long until snow covers even King’s Landing. It’s only another thing that makes her pressed for time.

And yet, she’s been sitting here all night, going over the guard’s routine that she knows perfectly now, picturing exactly who’s face she’d take and when – if she so chose – or what pillar she’d pull a guard behind so that no one would see the pooling blood until too late.

She hears the Hound rise behind her, hears him prepare himself a bowl of porridge; he puts one for her down on the windowsill, next to the burnt down candle, but she likely won’t touch it.

She’s already made this decision. She’s already left her family, left Gendry, left Winterfell behind – the things she thought would be the hardest to do. And yet . . .

And yet.

 

This day is different than most for one simple reason: Cersei is bringing the smallfolk into the Keep in droves.

Arya is under no illusions as to why that is: to try and dissuade Daenerys from turning her dragonfire on the Keep. But Arya knows what Cersei doesn’t, and that is that Daenerys won’t stop herself from burning King’s Landing just because there are people. If that’s what Daenerys wants, it’s what she’ll get.

On any other day, Arya’s day would be long but simple. She always leaves mid-morning, after most people have opened their stores for the day. The streets are usually crowded, but manageable. She would pick her way through streets she hadn’t been in yet, to avoid people becoming familiar, using spare coin in her purse to buy vegetables and fruit that mostly just sits in the room waiting to rot.

She always goes in the direction of the Keep.

Not today. No, today is not like any other day. Cersei bringing in the smallfolk means it’s happening.

She’s out of time.

Arya rushes back to her room, taking practiced steps that lets her glide in the opposite direction through the frantic crowd.

 

The Hound looks up from where he sits, staring in to the empty hearth.

“It’s time.”

He turns to her and sighs deeply. The chair creaks as he stands. “If you say so.”

They strap their leathers to themselves in silence, then their sword belts. The Hound thunders out the door and down the stairs, but Arya hesitates in the doorway, fingers clenching around the frame.

 _This is for Gendry,_ she reminds herself. _To keep him safe._

She leaves the inn behind, and slips into the crowd, following the Hound as he ploughs through the people.

 

It’s easier than expected to make their way inside the Keep, and once they get to where the crowd thins it’s even easier to pick their way through the long and sprawling halls to make their way back to the Throne Room.

 

Arya stands in the Throne Room, Needle hanging limply from her fingertips. Mouth parted in surprise, she steps closer to the Iron Throne.

Empty.

Why is it empty?

“They must be watching over the city.”

Arya glares over to the Hound sharply.

“You think Cersei would leave the Throne Room completely empty?” she snaps, grip tightening around Needle’s hilt. “Daenerys is _right outside._ She wouldn’t defend this Throne to the last fucking person?”

The Hound purses his lips, then looks to the ceiling. “I’m going looking for them.”

Arya is fairly sure he isn’t going to find them, but she follows anyway.

 

The walls of the city are burning, and the echo of dragon roar rings in her ears.

From this high in the Keep, they can see everything. Arya can see the people still rushing in to the Keep, can see the crumbled walls that the Northmen and Unsullied are likely coming through, can see one dragon perched atop the city’s battlements, can see another circling the city as it roars.

From here, she can hear the bells of surrender ring throughout the city.

From here, she can see as Daenerys ignores them and takes flight.

 

Her lungs _burn._

Arya’s feet skip quickly down the stairs of the Keep, her only desperate thought that she needs to get out _now._ The Hound stumbles behind her, dragged on by their clutched hands – she should let him go, he’s only holding her back, but somehow she can’t – and the stairs all blend together under her watering eyes.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

She won’t let it end like this.

People crowd the lower levels, high amounts of stress making them all shift and shout, but the Hound takes the lead now, shoving his way through them all quickly. Arya shouts at them all as they make their way out, hand threaded into the back of his cloak so she doesn’t lose him –“You have to get out, it isn’t safe, please, get out, come with us!”

No one listens, their only thought to get further inside the Keep where they think the fortified walls will keep them safe.

This building will instead be their tomb.

When they get outside, sun streams down, the shadow of Daenerys’ fearful dragon occasionally blocking it out; she’s only circling the city for now, and Arya has never felt so relieved. It’s so palpable that a sob bursts from her throat. The Hound doesn’t turn back to her, but his hand finds her upper arm and he drags her faster.

The further from the Keep they get, the more the crowd thins, but still, when Drogon dips lower in the sky, giant maw opening on a threatening roar, they’re not far enough away.

Can she feel heat on her back from the dragonfire, or is it the sun blaring down?

Can she hear the screams of thousands of people dying, or is just the bells?

There’s no mistaking the sound of the Keep crumbling, though, and when Arya turns her head to see the destruction that Daenerys Targaryen has wrought, the distraction makes her stumble over her feet and fall to her knees.

Hand still caught in his, the Hound yanks her arm so harshly her shoulder aches, but that pain is nothing compared to the sight of watching fire destroy the Keep; flames seem to continuously pour from Drogon’s vicious maw, and the bright yellows and oranges and blues lick up the building. The old brick is no match for such a weapon, and it’s consumed quickly and loudly. Dust and smoke billow upwards and outwards, filling the sky in a thick plume of grey and black.

Arya has never seen anything like it, and doubts she will again. There are no words for seeing such a huge monument be destroyed so easily and thoroughly, with so little regard for the lives being lost in the process.

Daenerys Targaryen will pay for this.

The crowd has thickened again, people screaming and crying and rushing away from the devastation. No doubt those who’d been inside have either burnt alive or been crushed by the collapsing Keep. People are ducking in to homes and shops, but still the Hound drags her onwards, toward the city walls.

They need to get away from the flames before they spread; they need to get out of the city before Daenerys decides to turn her dragons on the sprawling houses.

Her lungs ache and her knees and thighs throb each time her feet slam against the pavement, but to stop is to die, and to die in an unmarked grave amongst a mass of others, nothing left but the smell of burnt flesh, and charred bones.

Breath coming in harsh pants, Arya almost misses the deep rumbling of the Keep collapsing in on itself.

If Cersei and Jaime were in there, they’re certainly dead now.

The thought is subsumed by the ground trembling beneath her feet suddenly and violently, making her stumble yet again. Her arm is yanked from the Hound’s as she slams against a wall, and behind her the worst noise yet issues from the charred ruins where the Keep once stood; a violent explosion, unlike any she’s heard before, the force of it knocking her to her feet, head hitting the ground in a rush.

Her eyes roll back, but not before she see’s that the flames have changed from the yellow of dragonfire to the green of wildfire.

 

It’s the smell that beings consciousness back, a pungent, violent odour that makes her cough and choke and wheeze relentlessly, back arching up from the ground as her body protests against the lack of oxygen. Ash covers her whole body in a thin layer and it’s still falling from the sky.

She can’t see Daenerys any more, or Drogon, but it’s of little comfort.

The Keep is still burning bright and green.

 

Gods, she never should have left Winterfell, she just wants to kiss Gendry again or be hugged by Sansa or practice sword fighting with Jon, she should have listened to Sansa and let her deal with this; the sky is spinning, blue mixed with grey, smoke distorting everything

\- she’s choking on ash and smoke and it’s clogging her throat and burning her lungs and making her eyes water and all she can think is that what she’s choking on is human flesh –

 

Hand clawed against the wall, Arya pulls herself up, heading spinning and throbbing so brutally her eyes are unfocussed, dark and blurred, and see double. Her ears are ringing so loudly that all other sound is muffled. Her ribs ache. Her face is hot and wet with tears and blood. Her own? Probably. But maybe others’ – there are enough dead laying around her that it could be the case.

She stumbles forward.

 _Out of the city,_ she thinks blearily. _Out of the city._

 

She stumbles, and keeps stumbling.

 

_Out of the city._

A horse appears, as if from nowhere.

But that isn’t true. The streets are abandoned; maybe they’d evacuated to the Keep and are dead, or maybe they’re inside their houses, huddled together for safety.

This horse has come loose from where it had been tied, likely belonging to some army man or another.

_Out of the city._

Her hands settle on it’s white mane, grey with ash and red with blood.

She can’t stop her tears as she mounts the horse in a daze. It takes her several tries, the horse skittish and her senses dulled, but mounts it she does.

Once atop it, she takes a deep breath and turns back.

The horizon is completely filled with smoke, but even with that she can see that no building stands where the Keep was, and likely no buildings around it. The fire is spreading outwards quickly, jumping from roof to roof, house to house, and Arya is closer to it that she thought she was.

Or maybe the explosion was so huge it’s caught up to her already.

The trot outside the city is hard and makes her hurt all over.

 

She sobs through most of it.

 

When she gets outside the destroyed walls, the Northmen’s camp immediately dots the horizon. Arya makes her way there slowly, the only one on a horse amongst a sea of people making their way from the city. Her sobbing has stopped but tears still make their way down her caked face, hot and uncomfortable. She can’t even lift her arms to wipe them away.

Northmen turn to look at her as she reaches the edge of the camp; they’re not lined with ash, not like she is, so they must have gotten out of the city before Daenerys set it on fire. Still, they’re moving frantically, running to and from places, shouting orders around as contingents prepare to march back inside the city walls, presumably to help survivors.

Mutedly, lids heavy and breathing erratic, she stays atop her horse as it trots slowly through the camp. They go quiet as she walks by – or maybe they don’t, she can’t hear anything they’re saying over the ringing in her ears anyway - staring up at her with something like horror, something like awe. Do they know who she is?

They don’t stop her, or help her down, or point her in any direction that could be useful to her.

Truthfully, she doesn’t know what she’s even doing. Is she just passing through to go North? Is she looking for a bed to camp in? Her head spins and her ears ring and she can’t even make a decision as simple as whether or not to stop.

Jon pushes open the flaps of a tent to her left in a flurry of movement; she can hear him shouting instruction, but it’s muffled and dull.

He stops immediately as he catches sight of her, mouth popping open in shock.

The horse comes to a stop, but Arya doesn’t know if she made it or if it’s finally exhausted, the shock of the explosion having weakened it and much as it’s weakened her.

Jon’s hand rests on her knee, and he’s tugging at her arm with his other hand, speaking to her, but she can’t hear what he’s saying. He shouts over his shoulder, and this time he’s close enough that she can vaguely hear him order, “Everyone get back to work!”

The crowd disperses, though Davos lingers behind Jon, obviously troubled.

With no help from her, Jon manages to her pull her from the saddle. Her fingers curl into his armour wherever they can find purchase, body slumped against his so that he’s the only thing keeping her on her feet.

She can feel his chest rumbling under her ear, and can just make out his northern brogue enough to know that he’s demanding of her what happened.

“The wildfire . . .” she mumbles, fingers tightening around him as she see’s the green flame exploding from underneath the Keep, see’s the bodies around her thrown through the air much like her own, see’s people lying dead around her.

Jon leads her into the tent he just came from, then sits her in a chair he pulls from the corner of the space.

Jon kneels in front of her, running his hands over her face trying to clean it, pushing his fingers through her hair in comfort, finally grasping her hands in his.

He’s speaking to her, but she doesn’t catch everything he’s saying.

“Winterfell,” she makes out. “Arya . . . Winterfell . . . safe . . . safe.”

She shakes her head slowly, lifting a hand to her ear to tug at it, trying to get rid of the ringing.

“Jon,” she interrupts, slowly, sluggishly, but it’s enough that he stops talking. “I can’t go to Winterfell. I’ve got to – I’ll do it. I’ll kill Cersei. I’ll kill Daenerys.”

Jon is shaking his head fiercely before her sentence is out. He leans up to press a kiss to her temple, then squats back down.

She doesn’t even need to be able to hear him to know that he’s repeating _No_ over and over again.

“She’ll kill you,” Arya says, hands lifting to rest against his shoulders. “She’ll kill you. I’ll do it.”

“ . . . me . . . you or Sansa.”

She rubs her ear again, and this time Jon takes note of it, brows furrowing in concern. He cups her cheek again, then says, a bit louder so she can hear him enough to fill in the blanks.

“If I don’t go in there, she will do to Winterfell what she’s done here. I _have_ to go.”

“No, no,” she responds, mouth moving slowly around the words, pushing his hands away. “ _I’ll_ go. I have to do it. I can do it.”

Arya starts as Davos pushes his way in to the tent, hunching her shoulders and covering her head with her hands at the abrupt movement.

Jon leaves his hand resting on her shoulder, fingers smoothing over her comfortingly as he stands. Arya can’t hear what they’re saying, palms pressed over ears as she fights to stop herself from crying again.

It’s of no use, and when Jon kneels in front of her again, face ashen and determined, she feels her throat hitch in a sob.

He sighs and shakes his head, eyes closing tightly, then he cups the back of her neck and kisses the top of her head.

It feels like he’s saying goodbye.

“ _Winterfell,”_ he tells her again. There’s a couple of other words that she misses, then he repeats the name of their home. He talks quickly and fervently, and she goes back to being unable to hear him. “ Arya. Winterfell . . . safe . . . so sorry . . . love you . . . tell . . .”

He kisses her again, and Arya tries to grasp his armour, his hand, but he slips through her fingers as he makes his way out. She goes to rise to her feet, to follow him, but her knees buckle underneath her. Davos catches her, arms circling around her middle.

“No, Jon, wait, please.”

He pauses at the entrance, fingers clenched tightly by his sides. Arya feels more than hears her own sobs, her desperate pleas for him to stay.

Jon turns his head over his shoulders, gives her one last sad look, then tells her, “Stay safe, little sister,” and leaves the tent with a determined stride.

Davos pulls against her torso, further back in to the tent, but he struggles for no reason. As soon as the tent flap stops blowing from his departure, Arya slumps against his arm, unable to do anything but let her ears rings and tears fall as Davos settles her back in to the chair.

_Please, Arya. Get to Winterfell. I’ll try to stop Daenerys. Get to Winterfell. You’ll be safe there, I will keep the North safe. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you, little sister. Tell Sansa I love her._

 

Jon

Stepping into King’s Landing alone feels like a suicide mission.

But he’s made plenty of those before, hasn’t he?

Seeing Arya has been both a blessing and a curse. He’s not sure he’s ever felt as much devastation as he had when her ash-streaked face had pleaded with him to stay; and yet, without her telling him that she would go in his place, he doesn’t know if he could have steeled his resolve to go in the burning city so quickly.

His forces are scattering through the city, finding survivors, evacuating them from the rubble. Jon doesn’t know where the Unsullied are; they’d split from his procession when the bells had rung and the city surrendered. Jon had ordered a retreat as soon as Daenerys had taken to the sky, telling his forces to help as many people on the way out as possible. He knows most of them followed those orders because when he’d arrived back at camp it had been overflowing with his people and the smallfolk of King’s Landing.

This walk towards Daenerys he makes alone. He has no support but Longclaw, and he doesn’t know what he’ll find. Grey Worm will likely have told Daenerys that he abandoned the siege, so he has no idea what he’s walking in to.

Will she have him executed on the spot for his treachery, her bloodlust fueled by what she’s just done? Or will she be willing to let him close to her, that same bloodlust finally satisfied?

Jon thinks he knows enough of Daenerys, enough of satisfaction, to know which category she will fall in to.

He’s given her everything she’s asked for, and he’s never known her to be satisfied.

King’s Landing seems almost fine in the outer reaches, but the further in he gets the more ash falls from the sky, the more bodies are piled either side, the more the stench of charred flesh fills his nose.

A shadow passes overhead and the sound of giant wings flapping makes Jon flinch and duck before he can help it. But it’s only Rhaegal, which, somehow, is extremely comforting. Jon doesn’t know if Rhaegal participated in this destruction, but he’s fairly sure that he didn’t. Daenerys doesn’t have that much control over Rhaegal anymore, and Jon’s own desire for her to stop had filled every fibre of his being as she’d rained fire down. He thinks that such an intense desire _must_ have passed on to Rhaegal.

But he can’t be sure.

The wildfire is still burning, but not anywhere as intensely as it had initially, hours ago. Still, there’s no possible way that Daenerys is inside, and such a supposition is proven correct when he see’s her figure standing alone in the middle of the street.

A great space of flattened houses is in front of her, and past that is the still-burning chasm of the Keep. The Unsullied line the street behind her, protecting her back. Grey Worm’s face is as stoic as ever, streaked in grey ash, but there’s a haunted look in his eye that wasn’t there before.

Jon doesn’t know what the other man is thinking. Does he wish they’d retreated as well? Does he wish he stopped Daenerys when he had the chance? Or does he still follow Daenerys’ every command?

Jon still doesn’t know the answer, even when Grey Worm takes Jon’s sword and pats him down to make sure he has no other weapons. There’s too much reluctance on Grey Worm’s part for Jon to think the man is doing it because he still truly believes in Daenerys.

The closer Jon gets to Daenerys, the hotter the air feels. When he finally reaches her, to stand by her side, he’s started to sweat in earnest, making the ash stick like mud against his face.

Daenerys stands right at the line that delineates what’s been consumed by fire and what hasn’t. Ahead, Jon can make out burnt bodies everywhere, and amongst them he can make out armour. He knows who they are. Northmen who were here on orders that he himself gave: get everyone away from the Keep.

Drogon sits in that big now-empty space, wings folded gently to his sides. Rhaegal sets down beside him, the ground shuddering as he roars.

Jon doesn’t even know where to start.

“Grey Worm told me you abandoned the siege.”

It’s such an outrageous thing to say that Jon can’t help but repeat it incredulously, even though his leaving is exactly the type of thing that would anger her.

“Abandoned the – this wasn’t a siege, Daenerys, it was a massacre. Do you even _know_ if Cersei was in there?”

Daenerys scoffs. “Of course she was. Where else would she have been?”

Jon shakes his head. “Do you know who else was in there?” he presses. “ _My_ people were in there, evacuating _yours._ There were thousands of smallfolk inside the Keep. Is that what you wanted? How can you justify what you just did to them?”

She takes a deep breath, then turns to him, brows furrowed in regret. “Victory only comes with great cost,” she says earnestly. “The next generation will be grateful for our sacrifice.”

Jon can’t even wrap his mind around that justification. “Their deaths are _your_ sacrifice for the Throne?”

Her braids and curls bounce around her as she shakes her slowly, as if disappointed in him.

“You abandoned the plan,” she says again.

“Yeah, well, someone once told me that battle makes it difficult for plans to be followed,” he replies bitterly, thinking back to what she’d said such a thing after he’d left Rhaegal to go to Bran during the Long Night.

“Your treason won’t be forgiven this time,” she continues, as if she has any power over him.

“Treason?” he repeats. “You aren’t my Queen.”

“You had an oath to take the city with me,” Daenerys says. “You broke it and not only left the city, but helped people escape justice. I sentence you to execution.”

“ _Execution?”_ he says loudly, stunned. Rhaegal roars. “Not that you’re my monarch – but without trial?”

She appraises him, as if he’s said something ridiculous. Rhaegal roars again, and shifts closer to them. It draws Daenerys attention. Her face smooths into an expressionless mask.

“Alright, Jon,” she says. “I can do this your way. Trials can be replaced with fights to the death in Westeros, can’t they? It’s almost tradition, isn’t it?”

Jon doesn’t get the chance to reply – not that he _would_ – before she nods, still staring at the dragons.

“Our dragons will stand in our place.”

Drogon roars his compliance into the sky.

“No, Rhaegal, don’t, _don’t –“_

Rhaegal ignores Jon’s demand, and takes to the sky after Drogon.

Jon turns to Daenerys, suddenly wild and overcome, and grabs her shoulders. “Stop this, Daenerys! They’re your _children._ You would let one of them die?”

Daenerys doesn’t flinch under his unyielding stare, instead stepping back and out of his grasp.

“I know who will win, Jon Snow. I know who will die. It isn’t me.”

“You are going to let Rhaegal die?” Jon demands. “Daenerys, _stop_ this! You raised him, you won’t let him die. Stop this, now!”

Daenerys turns her face to the sky, looking up to see the two dragons circling around each other.

“You are either with me or against me,” she whispers.

Jon won’t be able to convince her. He runs into the empty space, trying to catch sight of the two last dragons.

Rhaegal roars, then tucks his wings into his side, spearing his body towards Drogon. Through the smoke, Jon can see the two giant beasts clash in the sky, claws drawn, maw’s open wide.

They fight hard, and viciously, blood being spilled and splashing across the city, huge wings and tails crashing into buildings when they get to close to the ground, fire setting more things alight.

It’s awful to watch them destroy even more on his behalf, and no matter how many times he shouts for them to stop, no matter how much he wills Rhaegal to stop, they don’t. This is beyond him now; they are too deep into their battle for any will of a mere human’s to stop them.

The smoke shrouds them so much so that he can no longer tell which is which. He can’t see which of them is winning, but he can feel it. Rhaegal’s shoulder was already wounded, and each time Drogon gouges his claws into Rhaegal, Jon can feel the gashes as if they’re his own.

When finally one dragon’s wings stop beating, Jon falls to his knees as Rhaegal falls from the sky.

Jon feels like he can’t breath as his connection with Rhaegal is forcefully severed; it’s a brutal feeling, as if Jon’s soul is being cut from his body. Rhaegal plummets while Drogon roars in victory.

Jon clutches his chest, in agony, eyes closing and head bowed.

Daenerys’ hand closes around his shoulder.

Jon rips himself from her grip, standing and facing her in a rage.

“You – you just – what have you done?”

“You are either with me or against me.”

“Were all these people against you?” Jon shouts at her. “They’d surrendered, Daenerys! They weren’t against you! And you killed them all, for what? For a Throne that’s probably melted now?”

“I didn’t kill them,” she refutes. “I destroyed the Keep. Cersei Lannister brought them in there, not me. I did nothing but break the wheel, like I always said I would.”

“You’ve killed hundreds of thousands of people! No quest is worth that sacrifice!”

“It is to me.”

Jon thinks he might be about to break down in to sobs. There’s no reasoning with her, and now he doesn’t know what to do. He has to kill her. Or – imprison her. He’d just condemned her for setting him for execution without trial.

But he can’t do it right now. The Unsullied are everywhere.

No, maybe he has enough time to kill her. Before they reach him, he could probably do - . . . something. Fuck. _Fuck._ There’s no other option, is there? If he doesn’t kill her now, she’ll kill him, and he’ll never get another opportunity to save the rest of the realm.

“At every turn, Jon, you have stood against me, and I have continually shown you mercy, even though you have shown me none.”

He’s looking around for a rock, or maybe there’s a dagger here somewhere.

“I have liberated King’s Landing, even if you can’t see such a truth. I will do the same for all of Westeros. From Dorne to Winterfell.”

“N-no, _no.”_

He still doesn’t have a plan, but he bends down to pick up something, anything, now completely pushed to his breaking point. His fingers find no purchase, so instead he lunges toward her, with the intent of wrapping his bare fingers around her throat.

His assault lasts only a moment, but it’s enough for panic to flare across her face as he squeezes.

He hasn’t felt out of control like this since he tried to smash Ramsey Bolton’s face beneath his fists.

Hands pull him away from Daenerys before he can do any real damage. He pulls against them, and his rage gives his body enough strength to overcome them.

Jon doesn’t make it to Daenerys a second time, stopped by Grey Worm poking his spear beneath Jon’s chin. He’s in such a rage that he might actually continue forth despite it, but the point digs in enough to make a fear for his own life overcome his desire to continue forward.

“Our paths are completely diverged now, Jon Snow,” Daenerys say hoarsely, rubbing her throat. “I will have you executed for this. I want to know if you burn under dragonfire. But, first, I’m going to make you watch as I execute your traitorous family, as I burn your home, as I stand Sansa Stark before you and command Drogon to kill her.”

Grey Worm juts the spear against his chin again, in warning, before Jon even has a chance to step forward again.

So be it.

He’ll make her rue the moment she decided to keep him alive.

 

Jaime

Even from the shore of Dragonstone, Jaime can see the giant plume of smoke rising from King’s Landing.

Waves from Blackwater Bay lap against his booted feet, but Jaime can no longer feel the icy water. All feeling in his body had left him as he watched the smoke first start to rise and he’d bent at the waist to retch into the water.

All those people . . . and he’d left them there.

The sun is blocked by the giant plume and when darkness falls, it falls quickly, hiding any image of the burning city.

He can still smell it though.

When Jaime makes his way from the beach and to the Throne Room, hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his renamed sword, Harbinger, he feels less and less like he deserves to live. He’s done as Sansa asked faithfully, had kept an eye on Cersei and sent ravens to Sansa with updates, but it can’t possibly be enough.

No, it was never going to be enough, not even before he’d had the lives of those in King’s Landing on his conscience, too. He’d known Cersei was moving them into the Keep, and he’d known he was leaving King’s Landing for Dragonstone, and he’d known that Daenerys was volatile. He should have done more. He should have stayed in King’s Landing and burnt with the people.

Jaime is under no illusion that he could ever possibly do anything to earn redemption, or forgiveness. He’s committed too many atrocities.

But he’d wanted to avoid any further sins.

That was why he’d come south in the first place. Not to kill Cersei, pregnant with his unborn child – no, no, to do that with his own hand would be a crime itself – but to deliver her to someone who would rightfully stop her and bring justice down for those Cersei had hurt in the past.

He’d been scared that the moment he saw her their past would overcome him, make him want to save her – which was why he’d been so ambivalent about stopping Arya from coming south, even though Sansa had trusted him to do so - but, truthfully, he’d put enough distance and time between them that he is free of her hold.

Jaime finds Cersei in Dragonstone Keep’s Throne Room, sitting in the dragonglass throne. It’s where she’s been more often than not. She’s not been entertaining a court while they’ve been here, in order to keep up the illusion that they’re still in King’s Landing.

Daenerys, foolishly, had taken near on all of her forces when she’s left for King’s Landing a week ago. As the camp of the competing Queen’s forces had grown, Cersei had made the decision to take only two boatloads of Golden Company with her. Dragonstone had been underwhelmingly protected, and the Company had overcome what remained of the Unsullied quickly and easily.

More forces have come since then, totaling maybe a thousand. Jaime doesn’t know Cersei’s plan for when the Unsullied inevitably turn back to Dragonstone, but he’s sure she has one.

Cersei eyes him as he enters, fingers dancing over the armrests of the throne.

“I can smell it from here,” she says, a smirk twisting her face into cruelty. “The wildfire worked perfectly.”

Jaime’s mouth goes dry as he steps forward. His strangled whisper echoes through the chamber.

“What did you do?”

She tilts her head at him. “Won, of course.”

That plume of smoke had been huge. Jaime had assumed that it was the whole city burning, but she makes it sound like that’s not the case.

She scoffs at him, then stands, folding her hands in front of her swollen stomach as she descends the stairs.

“The wildfire caches were designed to inflict as much damage as possible from one spark,” Cersei explains, a satisfied smile on her face. “But that was during a time when there were no dragons. I knew that the wildfire would pale in comparison to the damage they can inflict. So I moved it where I knew she would burn, to a single place that would kill as many as possible: the Keep.”

Jaime steps forward in rage. Somehow, _somehow,_ she’s surprised him again. Her capacity to condemn thousands to their deaths is so despicable to him that he can’t really grasp it.

“She burnt the Keep knowing the smallfolk were in there,” Cersei continues, as if he needs any more explanation. He doesn’t. She’s just touting her genius. “King’s Landing is unlivable. And I’ve taken her home.”

“What are you expecting?” Jaime demands. “That – that what, now everyone knows what she is they’ll turn against her? She has two dragons, no one is rising up against her in _your_ name!”

Cersei scoffs again. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I don’t expect them to rise up for me. They’ll do it for Sansa Stark.”

Jaime’s gut tightens.

His fear must show on his face – of course it does, he’s never been a good liar and Cersei has well and truly shocked him this time – because a smile twitches on her lips.

“Oh, please,” she says derisively, though he knows she’s taking great pleasure in this because she’s still smiling. “You spent weeks up North, and then suddenly you what? Escaped? Or were let go? Enlighten me as to how you came back south, Jaime, please.”

Jaime swallows loudly in an effort to get rid of the dryness in his mouth and throat, but it does little to help.

Cersei hadn’t asked the question when he’d arrived in the Red Keep, prostrating himself on his knees before her. He’d put on a big show, begging for forgiveness from her, even detailing Daenerys’ plans for the city in an effort to win her favour. She hadn’t asked him much, and hadn’t killed him either, but nor had she taken him back to her bed or let him anywhere near as close as she used to.

He’d not realized that her apathy had actually been cunning.

How utterly fucking stupid of him.

“I also know you’ve been sending ravens North,” Cersei continues, stepping closer and closer to him. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read them, but I didn’t have to. I know she must have convinced you to her cause. I wonder which of my many lessons she used to do so . . . did she find your weakness? Did she convince you of her cause? Did she make you fear her? Or did she fuck you into submission, like I used to?”

Jaime stumbles back from her, ripping his gaze from hers.

Gods, he wants to – fuck, he doesn’t know, he feels like his entire world is being ripped out from under him yet again.

“You may be of a weaker constitution than most,” Cersei sneers, “but I taught Sansa everything she knows. She’ll have people rallied to her side soon enough, and I’ll let her deal with the Targaryen girl. Once she has, I’ll deal with her. I may have taught her everything she knows, but it’s not everything I know.”

He has to warn Sansa.

Harry Strickland has Jaime’s arms behind his back before he can even think of running.

Cersei runs her forefinger along her smiling lips.

“I’m sure there are dungeons somewhere in the castle,” Cersei says thoughtfully, as if she doesn’t already know. “They are Targaryens, afterall. Captain Strickland, if you would.”

 

Sansa

The day Howland and Meera Reed arrive, Sansa gets a raven.

Howland presents himself to her gracefully, bowing deeper than tradition requires to but a Lady of a castle, and reiterates House Reed’s fealty to House Stark.

Sansa accepts him graciously, and while Meera is polite she is not as enthusiastic as her father.

“I never thought I’d step foot in Winterfell again,” Howland says later, when he stands beside her on the ramparts, looking out over the bustling Winterfell. Meera stands behind them, trying to appear as though she’s not listening, obviously unwilling to venture far from her father’s shadow. “Your father and I thought it best. To keep a such a large secret required no small sacrifice, Lady Stark.”

Sansa turns to Howland, hand clenched around the balustrade. “Why are you here, Lord Reed?” Sansa asks, not unkindly. “The Walker threat is defeated. If you’ve come to spill a secret to me, I’m afraid you’ve been beaten to it, and I must ask that you continue to show discretion.”

Howland looks at her, brows high in surprise. “Lady Stark, it is hardly a secret any longer.”

He brandishes a scroll, with the same spider seal on it that Sansa has in her pocket.

She pulls the scroll from her dress and rips open the spider that she’s not yet had a chance to look at yet.

_Lady Sansa, of House Stark,_

_I’m writing to inform you that –_

She doesn’t need to finish reading it. She lets it roll back up in her fingers, then turns away from Howland for a moment. The paper taps against the wooden railing as she takes a moment to ponder on Varys’ audacity.

She’d been planning to do something about it herself, of course. Jon’s glaring loophole when he’d promised Daenerys _he_ wouldn’t reveal his parentage had been enough to make multiple plans unfurl in Sansa’s mind, but even she’d known the danger of angering Daenerys right before she was marching on the capital.

Any move Sansa was going to make, she was going to make _after_ the siege.

She turns back to Howland abruptly.

“My apologies, Lord Reed, I’m sure you’ve had a long trip here,” she says brusquely. Howland peers at her, obviously distressed that he’d shared such news with her. Varys must have sent her letter later than the others’, Sansa surmises, which is why the Reed’s have arrived the day she’s gotten her letter. “I’m going to have to leave you until this evening. I’ll have someone show you to your rooms.”

 

The cold winds of winter slice through the godswood, but it does little to make Sansa’s attention stray from Bran.

In Sansa’s lap lays the crumpled piece of parchment, the same that prompted her to make her way out here while the sun is setting and the snow is falling.

_\- Ned Stark hid the boy in the North as his bastard son, but he is the trueborn heir of Rhaegar Targaryen –_

“What’s happening?” she urges, even though she doesn’t know if Bran can actually hear her.

Sansa flinches as Bran’s eyes roll forward to stare at her, surprised that he’d pulled from his vision so quickly after she’d asked him.

“Sansa.”

Sansa immediately feels sick, just from Bran’s tone. He sounds terrified, and like he dreads telling her what he’s about to.

“What?” Sansa demands. “What’s Varys playing at?”

Bran shakes his head in muted horror.

“No,” he says. “No. Sansa, she – she’s set her dragons on the Red Keep.”

Sansa pushes to her feet, staggering away from Bran and the weirwood tree. Her hands come up to cover her mouth, the same horror that lines Bran’s face now on hers too.

“Cersei put wildfire under it,” Bran continues. “Half the city is destroyed. Jon - . . .”

Sansa spins back around, pressing her hands to the sides of Bran’s face. “Where is he?” she demands. “Is he alive?”

“Daenerys has taken him prisoner. Rhaegal is dead.”

Sansa’s breath hitches in her throat so quickly she gets scared she’s choking. She has to use all her not-so-inconsiderable practice to even her breathing into something rational instead of something that will quickly lead to hyperventilation.

She has to go and get him.

There’s no question about it. She’s _not_ leaving him there, it’s not even a matter to debate. The only question is how she gets him out without putting his life and the lives of her people in unnecessary danger.

“I’ll send someone out to get you,” Sansa says, words slurring together in her rush.

She picks up her skirts in her fists, lifting them from her feet, and takes off towards Winterfell at a run.

Her hair comes loose from her braid as she runs, and people turn to look at her in shock, and, truly, running now will make no difference to her plan, but it’s _Jon,_ it’s probably Arya –

So she runs through the godswood and courtyard, ignoring the snow that wets her boots and the trails of her dress, through the halls of Winterfell, despite the fact that she very rarely moves so far so quickly and the stairs steal her breath.

On her way to her office, Sansa comes across Brienne, who’s eyes go wide when she catches sight of her, but Sansa just gasps, “King’s Landing,” and Brienne follows behind, her armour clanking as she runs.

Sansa’s hand shakes as she tries to insert her key into the door, and she can’t get it in right.

Brienne takes the key from her and unlocks the door quickly.

“Get me Yohn Royce and Howland Reed,” Sansa commands Brienne as she pulls the door open, intent on writing a letter to her uncle Edmure and pleading with him to ready his forces for her cause and following her south in a stand against Daenerys. “And ready me a horse, a carriage if we have one to spare. I’m leaving tomorrow.”


	7. The Iron Throne Pt I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i've decided to split this ep into three parts hahahah whoops sorry but also it meant a faster update so like ? you win some you lose some 
> 
> i hope you all enjoy! we're well and truly into the endgame now!

 

Arya

Sure Spear walks down the winding stairs of the abandoned house in which the Queen has chosen to keep the prisoner.

It is the dwelling over from the Queen’s, and Sure Spear knows this is a great honour, to be housed next to the Queen.

Sure Spear knows it also a great honour to be the officer in charge of the prisoner.

Arya chose him for those exact qualifications.

The stairs creak as Sure Spear makes his way down them. He’s come to know exactly how the wood creaks and when, and he steps heavily on those places. The other guard, Red Fist, will know that he is coming to relieve him and will be ready to leave.

As predicted, Red Fist passes by with a solemn nod.

Sure Spear takes his post in front of the door and waits several minutes, to be sure Red Fist isn’t returning for some reason.

When it’s clear that he’s alone, Sure Spear pulls the key to the prisoner’s door from a pocket, then turns to unlock it.

He closes the door behind him.

The bed creaks as the prisoner sits up.

“Arya.”

Sure Spear reaches up to his face.

Arya turns around to face Jon, rolling her neck, shaking her legs and clenching her fingers as she tries to get used to being in her own body after so many hours as Sure Spear.

Jon’s expression is soft in concern as he looks at her.

“You need to stop doing this,” he says. “It’s getting harder for you to shake him off.”

Arya walks to the bed and takes a seat next to Jon, trying to hide her exhaustion from him. He’s right, of course, though Arya doesn’t want to admit it to herself let alone him. The difficulty of becoming Arya again is the reason she told Sansa she didn’t want to wear any more faces.

But it doesn’t matter, in any case. She’s not leaving him here alone, not when anything could happen to him while he’s so defenseless, and Arya would never have been able to get close to him. Sure Spear can.

“Sansa hasn’t replied yet,” Arya tells him instead, trying to distract him.

Jon eyes her, knowing exactly what she’s trying to do, but he lets her anyway. “I’m sure she got the raven,” Jon assures her. “She likely won’t reply because she knows how dangerous and unreliable ravens can be.”

Arya can’t help but wonder if that’s true. She’d sent her raven north several days after Daenerys’ destruction of the city, detailing what had happened and reassuring her sister that she was safe. She’d told Sansa – though in code – that she’s taken a face of an Unsullied in order to be close to Jon and keep an eye on him, and had asked her sister to come up with a plan to free them.

Arya can’t help but wonder if Sansa ever even got the message.

But, as Jon says, she’ll likely not know until Sansa either marches on the capital or doesn’t.

Arya bites her lip, then scoots back on the bed, resting her back against the wall and looking out over the room.

It’s fairly bare, just the bed that they’re in, and a chamberpot and bucket of water. He’s been in here almost a moon now. Arya doesn’t know how he hasn’t gone mad from the isolation and how little he has to do for most of the day. Perhaps if she weren’t there to keep him company he would have.

Arya sighs, the topic of Sansa giving her the opportunity to bring up something that’s been sitting heavily in her mind since she left Winterfell. “Look, about you and Sansa . . .”

Jon closes his eyes and looks away from her. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

Arya tries to smile, but it feels strained. “What else would we talk about?”

Jon looks to the boarded up window longingly. “Has the snow started to stick yet?”

“It has,” Arya says. “The streets are lined with it.”

They don’t talk about what else the streets are line with.

While Unsullied occupy a lot of the remaining buildings in King’s Landing, Daenerys has not yet started to officially clean the city. The Keep has only just stopped smoldering; the only official project Daenerys had started since she’s taken the city was dumping sand on the wildfire burning the Keep. She’s only authorized one other project, though it’s not started yet.

The Iron Throne.

As far as Arya is aware, it had melted under the dragon and wild fire.

Daenerys wants to build a new one, molded under the tradition of the last. But she needs the swords of her enemies first, and that is why the project has been halted.

She’s waiting for her troops to recover, for Drogon to recover from the wounds received during his battle with Rhaegal and from scorpions fired under Cersei’s command. Arya suspects Daenerys wants to first turn North to collect her trophy swords.

“I miss the snow,” Jon says wistfully. “Watching the sky –“

“It isn’t my place to put judgment upon you and Sansa for what you’ve done.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut as he looks at Arya, wide eyed.

“Whatever sin you and she have partaken in, it will be your duty to bear it,” Arya continues. “It’s not up to me to decide whether you’re right or wrong.”

Jon looks lost for words for several long moments. Arya doesn’t help him out, but she’s actually given this a considerable amount of thought, both on her long journey south to King’s Landing, and now she’s reeling in the destruction of a city.

Arya is of two distinct minds about it. The first, the one she has tried hard shake but hasn’t been able to yet, is that she finds their love sinful and shameful. _Maybe_ if they’d fallen in love after they’d been revealed to be cousins. Maybe then she could be more open to it. But they hadn’t. It is too ingrained in Arya to think of sibling incest as nothing short of disgusting, and she has no idea what could have happened to them both to make them put that aside.

The other side, the quieter side, the side that she’s putting every effort in to listening to, says that they deserve to be happy. The obviously love one another extremely dearly, and gods know they both need a gentle yet consuming love. They’re lucky to have found each other.

Finally, Jon says, “I’ve not dishonoured her. I wouldn’t dare. I love her too much.”

Arya screws her nose up. “Too much detail, brother dearest,” she says, trying to be lighthearted.

He lets her, giving her a small smile, then sitting back on the bed to lean his back against the wall as well.

“We never . . . before I went to Dragonstone, I had no idea she returned my affections,” Jon reveals. Arya doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at her, but that’s probably for the best. “I would _never_ have acted upon my feelings if I hadn’t learnt the truth.”

Arya lets them sit in silence for a moment longer, but there’s one last thing she has to say on the subject before she can finally put her mind to rest.

“I’m glad Sansa found someone who loves her so purely. She deserves it.”

“She deserves the world,” Jon says earnestly, eyes taking on a faraway look, hands clenched in his breeches. “And I do. Love her, I mean.”

“I know,” Arya says, because at the very least that is the thing she is the most certain about. “She loves you as well. And you deserve that too, Jon.”

Jon’s eyes close as his head falls back against the wall. His face screws up, like he’s trying not to cry, and Arya gives him a moment to himself. It’s easy to feel hopeless, stuck here in King’s Landing, and Jon has the added bonus of being stuck in this tiny, dank, dark room, the smell of burnt and rotting flesh still so pungent Arya has developed a cough.

It must be all too easy for him to think that he’ll never get out of here, that he’ll never be North again, that he’ll never see Sansa again.

“I had my hands around her throat,” Jon whispers later, head still resting against the wall.

Arya has shifted, her legs to her chest and her head on her knees, alternating between staring at him and staring at the wall.

“When?” Arya whispers back, because she has no doubt on whom Jon is talking about.

“Right after . . . Rhaegal had just died and I – she said she was going to turn North, that she was going to kill Sansa and make me watch. I didn’t even think, I just leapt forward and closed my fingers around her neck.”

Arya watches his face closely as he scoffs, shaking his head.

“Wouldn’t that have been nice?” he asks scornfully. “If I’d succeeded then, we wouldn’t be here.”

Arya ponders on what to say. She could easily list all the things that, if different, would have led to a different outcome. If Arya had killed her in Winterfell, if Jon hadn’t pretended to love her, if Tyrion had been sentenced to death in King’s Landing for Joffery’s assassination, if Robert’s attempted assassination of a baby Daenerys had been successful, if the White Walkers weren’t created.

She’s fairly sure if she tries to talk that type of sense into him, though, he’ll just take a larger share of the guilt than is rightfully his. Because, however heart wrenching it may be, Jon has played some kind of role in this; he may have won the North independence, but he’d also pledged to help Daenerys bring the rest of the realm to heel. Doesn’t taking an active part in a Targaryen restoration deserve some condemnation?

Fuck, Arya doesn’t fucking know anymore. Right and wrong used to be so easy to discern.

Jon has the unenviable position of now being damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.

Because maybe he will be able to kill Daenerys for what she’s done, perhaps righting his wrong, but then he’ll be a kinslayer to all, a Queenslayer and oathbreaker to some. Which is worse? Personal damnation, or condemning the realm to a Targaryen?

The equation seems too simple when put like that, but when Arya looks across to her brother, she knows that this tangled web they’ve found themselves in will be one that lingers in their bones and souls forevermore. There is no coming back from this.

“You likely would have died if you had succeeded.”

He shrugs hopelessly, head dropping in to his hands. “And what kind of life is this?” he asks miserably. “Being stuck in a prison for the rest of my days? There is little I’d rather less.”

Arya grunts, kicking her leg out to hit him in the knee. He pulls his leg away from her, glaring over at her.

“What was that for?” he demands, a bit of anger leaking into his tone.

Good. Jon has always been broody, but hopeless melancholy doesn’t suit him.

“Your life isn’t over,” Arya reminds him fiercely. “You aren’t going to be stuck in this room forever. You’ll be free soon enough.”

Jon stands from the bed, running his hand over his matted curls. “Will I?” he asks, agitated. “We can’t just walk out of here. Daenerys is in the house over. The quick guard rotation means we wouldn’t even have enough time to get out of the city before she’s alerted to the fact I’m gone. All the Unsullied know who I am, and there is no way they’re letting me walk right past them, even if Sure Spear is there with me.”

“ _Sansa_ is coming,” Arya says, wishing she had something to throw at him.

“Maybe I don’t want her to come,” Jon replies harshly. He stops pacing, running his hand over his face and sighing deeply. “If she dies trying to rescue me . . .”

Arya almost rolls her eyes at him. “Fuck, Jon. Your imprisonment might be reason enough to bring her South, but you’re a fucking idiot if you think that’s the only reason. Daenerys killed half a million people. Sansa would have come for Daenerys eventually, whether you were here or not.”

Jon shakes his head, but takes a seat on the bed beside Arya again.

“You’ll go North, won’t you?” Jon says, a few minutes later. “If it doesn’t – if I don’t – I’d want you to go home, Arya. Go, let yourself be happy. Make a life for yourself. Try and build something with Gendry.”

Arya shoves him lightly, pulling herself forward to sit beside him. “You don’t know anything about me and Gendry.”

Jon smiles slightly, turning his head to look at her with fond eyes.

“You had me fooled for a little while, I’ll admit,” Jon says tenderly, looking and sounding so much like her father that her breath catches momentarily in her throat. “But I know you came South because you think you have to create some kind of safe world in which nothing bad will ever happen to him.”

This time, when her breath catches, it lasts for much longer, makes her throat burn as she realizes she’s about to cry.

She tilts her head back, trying to will the tears back in.

“I know the feeling,” Jon says regretfully. “It’s half the reason I was so insistent that _I_ be the one to go south and treat with Daenerys on Dragonstone. Sansa was right, I could have sent an emissary in my place. But I was so caught up in protecting her, in my fear of something happening to her, that I mistakenly thought that protecting Sansa meant that I had to be the one to wield the sword myself. I was wrong, Arya. Sansa and I had already found ourselves in a web of miscommunication prior to my arrival back home, because, well, _because_ –“

Arya pulls a dramatic downturned face at his slightly reddening cheeks, because the conversation is much too heavy and she feels better lightening it slightly, even if Jon shoots her a reproachful look.

“ – _anyway,_ when I came back, I’d almost ruined everything. The hurt I caused her . . . the point is, trying to be the only one to protect her, the one who goes south _foolishly,_ without a plan in place and the only thought in my head to save Sansa at all costs . . . well, looks where it’s gotten us. She’s coming head first into the danger anyway, and I’m stuck here, unable to do anything about it.”

It’s an odd kind of solidarity that comes to Arya then, but it nevertheless binds her to Jon intricately. To be the reckless partner, the protective partner, the damaged and broken partner that can’t think past the instinct of _my mate, must protect my mate._

Gendry and Sansa are their better halves, simply because that same instinct is tempered by the knowledge that running straight in to danger without a plan is foolish.

“Aye,” Arya says finally. “Aye, I’ll go home.”

Jon closes his eyes in relief, nodding once. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

She can tell that he truly is.

“And don’t worry Sansa. She knows what she’s doing. She’s smarter than both of us combined.”

Jon huffs a small laugh as his eyes stray to the far wall. She wonders if he’s imagining Sansa’s march South.

“Aye, she is,” he agrees softly. “But Daenerys is ruthless. If Sansa dies . . . I don’t think I would be able to live without her. I’m scared, Arya.”

_The only time a man can be brave is when he’s scared._

Instead of saying that, Arya reiterates firmly – even though she fears for Sansa’s life just as much -, “Don’t worry. Sansa will have a plan.”

 

Sansa

Sansa has very little in way of a plan.

Well, she’d had a solid plan when she’s left Winterfell, and so far it’s been executed perfectly. It’s just that now that King’s Landing is just over a week’s march away, the steps in the plan have run out.

Sansa finds her mind unusually distracted as she marches south. North of the Riverlands, of all the things that could stray her mind, the thing that occupied her thoughts most was that she wished Ghost and the pups were by her side.

Likely because it had been the least painful thing to linger on, the decision to leave them behind in Winterfell both right and unavoidable, and as such she harbours no regrets over it.

She just misses them.

Misses the way Ghost always stands beside her while the pups rush around in their youthful energy, the way Ghost nuzzles his snout into her stomach while the pups pull the hem of her dress in their teeth, or the way they sneak into her bed at night, Ghost laying across her legs in a way that makes her wildly uncomfortable but too endeared to stop him, the pups curled into Ghost’s side or maybe hers.

Then she’d reached the Riverlands, the Knights of the Vale at her back, and her Uncle Edmure sitting in the seat at Riverrun once again. He’d been rightfully hesitant to march behind her to take on Daenerys, but had ultimately decided to follow her when she promised him something much coveted.

Yara Greyjoy had agreed to bring her fleet south and meet Sansa in King’s Landing based on the same terms.

Now, with half the realm at her back, Sansa feels the solemn duty of protecting them all fall heavy on her shoulders.

A week out from King’s Landing, however, Sansa’s ghosts haunt her.

She can feel the heavy weight of Theon’s hand in hers as they’d jumped from Winterfell’s battlements together, the weight of the direwolf pin she’d watched him burn with. She can hear Rickon’s delighted screams as he’d run through the courtyard after Bran as a babe, the gurgle his reanimated corpse had given when the Night King had been slain. She can feel her mother pulling a brush through her hair gently while singing, and the last hesitant and lingering touch mother had trailed over her cheek before Sansa had left, never to see her again. She can hear her father’s gentle and encouraging voice, and the sound of his head being separated from his body and thunking on the ground.

The closer they ride to the city, the less sleep she gets and the more on edge she feels.

Fires are roaring throughout the camp, keeping those gathered around warm, and Sansa has one of the warmest tents there is.

It doesn’t make her sleep any better.

She jolts upright, sweat making her hair stick to her forehead as she tries to rid herself of the nightmare of reliving the day in King’s Landing she watched her father die.

Brienne pushes her way in to the tent. Sansa holds one hand up to halt Brienne’s progress, the other coming up to rub between her brows as she tries to calm her breathing.

Finally finding a semblance of calm, Sansa pushes her hair back and looks up at her sworn knight to give her a reassuring smile. It feels more like a grimace, and by Brienne’s unconvinced stare, Sansa can tell she didn’t quite pull it off.

“You should get some sleep,” Sansa says finally. “Change the guard early Brienne, go to bed.”

Brienne hesitates at the entrance, and before Sansa can take a stern tone and reassert her wishes, Brienne takes a step closer.

“They’re getting worse.”

Sansa lips twitch before she can help it. She sighs, then shifts in her cot, placing her feet against the ground and pushing the covers away from her body.

“Yes,” she replies. “The closer we get to the capital.”

Brienne hesitates by the tent, unwilling to completely forget propriety and come and sit in without Sansa’s permission but obviously wishing to provide comfort. Sansa inclines her head towards the chair opposite the bed. Before Brienne takes a seat, she pours a cup of water for Sansa, which Sansa takes gratefully. It sooths her parched throat; she must have been gasping in her sleep.

“Bad things happened to you here, my Lady,” Brienne says softly. “I’d be more concerned if you _weren’t_ having nightmares.”

Sansa supposes that that’s true, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I didn’t think Daenerys would do such a thing unprompted,” Sansa reveals after silence has settled for a few moments, because it’s been weighing on her chest ever since she learnt what happened. “I knew she would use her dragons, and I knew Cersei wouldn’t just let her take the city, but by all accounts Daenerys set fire to the Keep _after_ the city surrendered. If I had known she would go so far . . .”

“You don’t need to take any guilt over this,” Brienne says firmly. “I like to think I’ve come to know you fairly well, my Lady, and believe me when I say that I know you would have done something to prevent this outcome if you’d known how likely it was.”

Sansa stands from the cot, turning her back to Brienne so her sworn shield doesn’t see how affected by all this she is. Sansa suspects Brienne knows the extent of it anyway, standing outside Sansa’s tent in the evening as she does, but the habit to hide herself is too strong to ignore even in front of a woman who has seen her at her absolute worst.

“I’ve spent a long time trying to forget the sight of father’s death,” Sansa says finally, arms crossed tightly across her stomach, back still to Brienne. “Sometimes I can go days without thinking about it. But as I soon as I think about father _,_ the vision always comes to me. Of the act, of standing on the walkways as Joffrey made me stare at his head . . . I almost killed Joffrey that day. Almost pushed him over the edge, letting myself fall in the process. It seemed like the right thing to do, to kill the man who passed the sentence and the girl who put father’s death in motion.”

“You were a _child,”_ Brienne defends harshly. “You had no idea what the Lannister’s were. No one warned you, not even your father.”

Sometimes Sansa agrees with that, if she can detach herself enough to look at it logically. Mostly, though, Sansa carries the guilt with her. She knows what she did, she knows what she said. No matter whether she knew the truth or not, father’s death can be directly attributed to something she said.

Brienne can obviously tell that Sansa doesn’t agree with her, and sighs heavily.

“My Lady,” Brienne says gently, quietly, “I know death. I know loss. I know loneliness. I know how gut wrenching it is to remember that which causes so much pain. I also know how easy it is to block it out, to forget about the bad. But if you don’t let yourself think on your father because you know that you’ll think about his death, you lose the chance to remember any of the good things. To forget the bad, you sacrifice the good as well. You risk erasing him completely. And that would be a tragedy in itself, wouldn’t it?”

Sansa clenches her fists. She’s too raw right now to take Brienne’s wisdom to heart, but Sansa stores it away because even now she can recognize that Brienne is right: it _would_ be a tragedy.

“Brienne, I need to tell you something,” Sansa whispers, the truth tugging at her gut especially hard now that Brienne has extended extreme kindness. “I’m scared you’ll hate me once I tell you.”

Sansa turns to see Brienne’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“If it’s about you and Jon, I don’t think it’s my place to –“

Sansa shakes her head. “No, I – no. Though I owe you the truth about that as well, I can tell it to you another time. Over a cup of ale, after this is all over, and it’s less life threatening.”

Brienne purses her lips, obviously unable to parse Sansa’s vague meaning, but nervousness pulls in Sansa’s gut as she sits, leaving her no room to worry about the conclusions Brienne has obviously jumped to.

Sansa leans over to the small stool by her bed and rummages through the small amount of belongings she has there to produce the letter she’s been carrying on her body during the day.

The seal is unbroken, the letter barely even creased even though Sansa has had it in her possession for weeks now. Sansa hands it to her closest friend.

Brienne’s breath hitches as she recognizes the handwriting on the front of the letter.

She must have pored over Jaime’s parting letter as intently as Sansa has any of Jon’s. Sansa would recognize Jon’s writing anywhere, having traced it with her fingers over and over.

“I sent Jaime south,” Sansa confesses in a rush, wringing her fingers together. It’s odd that she fears Brienne’s reaction, because Sansa knows she made the right choice, especially considering Jaime’s letter containing his and Cersei’s hidden location on Dragonstone, unbeknown to most. It’s odd only in that Sansa made the right _logical_ choice; but she hurt Brienne by doing so, and Sansa knows she did. Brienne would be right to reproach her, but Sansa fears it anyway. She’s so sick of the necessity of sacrifice for victory in the great game. “He didn’t go because he wanted to die with Cersei, or whatever he told you. He went because I asked him to. Because I made him.”

Brienne rips the letter open, eyes drawn immediately to it. Only a few moments pass before Brienne looks up, closing the letter again.

“If you’ll excuse me, my Lady,” Brienne murmurs, standing. “I’d like to go and read this in my tent.”

“Of course, of course,” Sansa rushes to grant, hands dropping to her sides. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wouldn’t let him tell you either. I feared that any secret shared was a secret Cersei would come to learn.”

Brienne nods, face blank. Sansa can’t tell if she’s mad at her or not.

“Is he dead?” Brienne asks, body stiff.

Sansa bites her lip, glancing to the entrance of the tent. She steps closer to her knight, knowing that anyone could be listening, but feeling compelled to share the truth with Brienne anyway. It could prove to be an amateur mistake, but Sansa feels bound to make up for the hurt she knows she caused in her efforts to play the game so the North comes out in the best position it can.

“I’m not sure,” she whispers as quietly as she can. “Before we left Winterfell, I received a raven informing me that Cersei had taken Dragonstone and moved there before Daenerys took King’s Landing, but I haven’t heard from him since.”

Brienne’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open slightly. “Cersei’s _alive?_ ”

“I don’t think Daenerys knows,” Sansa says, glancing to the tent entrance again.

Brienne schools her features and nods once, understanding the danger of talking about it here.

“I’ll have the next guards come immediately,” Brienne says, voice rising to normal tones again.

She places her hand on Sansa’s shoulder, a gentle look on her face.

Sansa knows she’s been forgiven.

As Brienne leaves, Sansa wonders if she actually deserved to be.

 

Grey Worm

Despite what he knows people have come to believe, Grey Worm is no fool.

He knows that if he tries to assess who is with Daenerys and who is against her, he is too likely to come across someone who is either extremely fearful of her or has too much desire to climb up the military ladder. To come across such a person means that Daenerys will learn of his own doubts, his own plan against her, and it means he will be stopped before he even has a chance to do something about her.

So Grey Worm is biding his time.

But he’s not sure how much time he has left.

Grey Worm has been with Queen Daenerys for a long time now. He’s seen her at her worst, and he’s seen her at her best. It was not until Westeros, not until she was faced with people who unequivocally denied her leadership in favour of their own, that Grey Worm has slowly come to the realization that he is not as free as he thought he was.

If he chose a different leader, would she let him? If he chose to leave, would she let him?

Grey Worm is fairly sure he has answers to those questions – Missandei is more than sure she does – and the truth of it is hard to face. Did he help her conquer places that didn’t want to be conquered? Did his ambivalence allow her to grow into something monstrous?

Faced with the burning remains of a smallfolk who should have had no part in this war, Grey Worm knows that such questions will only be answered by the goddess the Lady of Spears once he dies, and he will only earn forgiveness for his part from her as well.

But he is not a man to ponder on the metaphysical.

He is a man of action. A military man. He knows no other way than that of direct strategy and consequences.

He knows what he must do.

And yet, Grey Worm is no fool; and his patience is rewarded by the news of Sansa Stark marching against the capital with half the realm at her back.

When Grey Worm brings the news to the Queen, he can watch as her face freezes in her anger. He knew this would stoke her temper, but to keep the information from her would be more foolish.

He’s just grateful that Drogon is too injured to take to the skies immediately. He’d left King’s Landing in the wake of the battle, likely for a field to curl up in and lick his wounds, but Grey Worm knows that if Daenerys called him strongly enough he would return.

He hasn’t come back yet.

Queen Daenerys has taken her quarters in a house that overlooks the destroyed Keep. She sits mostly in her Throne carved from wood, patiently waiting for the opportunity to make a new throne of swords. Despite the dire need, she’s not doing much else.

“Sansa is standing against me?” Daenerys demands. “After I have just shown to her what happens to those that do?”

Grey Worms’ jaw clenches, but he nods once.

Tyrion shifts beside him, sallow and meek. “The Vale and the Riverlands stand behind her, Your Grace. And there are reports that Yara Greyjoy is mobilizing as well –“

“Yara and I have an agreement.”

Tyrion pauses, shifting on his feet. Grey Worm wonders if Tyrion is brave enough to say what he knows to be true.

“Perhaps we should consider the possibility that her allegiance has shifted,” Tyrion says.

“There are four kingdoms opposing me?” Daenerys asks, frightfully calm. “Despite _two_ of those kingdoms having sworn fealty to me previously?”

Grey Worm squeezes his fists behind his back, a chill creeping up his spine.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion answers.

Daenerys stands from her throne, hands folded over her stomach.

“Hmm,” she hums. “It seems as though you’ve failed me yet again, Tyrion. I must do everything myself, it seems. And if I must do it myself, I have no use for you. Grey Worm, escort _Lord_ Tyrion to the dungeons, please.”

Grey Worm doesn’t hesitate.

Despite Tyrion’s loud protests, his pleading with Grey Worm the entire way, Grey Worm doesn’t relent. He can’t.

He deposits Tyrion in a makeshift cell the door over from Varys, the floor above Jon Snow, and turns on his heel.

 

Grey Worm can’t help but feel hesitant as he goes to meet Sansa Stark.

Since Queen Daenerys had learnt of Lady Stark’s march, she has grown more and more paranoid of her advisors. Tyrion and Varys are set to be executed as soon as Drogon reappears.

This morning, he learnt that Daenerys had made the decision to keep Missandei firmly away from the upcoming discussion – by locking her in a room in the same house as the prisoners.

“Is she your prisoner?” Grey Worm had demanded.

Daenerys had soft eyes as she looked upon him. “Of course not, Torgo Nudho.”

“Then why do you have her in that house? Locked up?”

Daenerys had shaken her head sadly, as if the act had pained her as much as it pains him.

“Sansa spent quite some time with our Missandei when we were North,” Daenerys had explained. “I fear that Sansa may have influenced her with her clever lies. I think it’s safest if Missandei stays far away from the negotiations. You understand, don’t you?”

 _Safest for who?_ Grey Worm had wondered, but dared not say.

If there is one thing that such an act has allowed him, it is freedom from Daenerys. He had been conflicted before, feeling indebted to her, no matter what he’s seen of her on this continent. On _his_ continent, it had felt different, it had felt benevolent. She’d _freed_ him. Surely the actions she’s made here are a matter of circumstance. Surely she hasn’t _always_ been like this.

On the way south from Winterfell, Missandei had whispered to him in the dark that she feared what Daenerys may do to them once she took the capital, once there were no more lands for her to conquer, once her attention had no choice by to turn inwards. Would she create more conflict? Would she create new problems to solve?

What would make Missandei and Grey Worm exempt from any damage Daenerys could cause?

The dust and smoke have not even settled from this war, and Grey Worm already knows the answer is nothing.

Nothing protects them from Daenerys. They have to protect themselves.

Grey Worm need not answer the question of whether or not she’s always been like this. She’s like this _now,_ and Missandei is in danger because of it.

Grey Worm can see the distinct red of Lady Stark’s hair from a distance, her chair-bound brother in front of her; by her side are her tall knight, Ser Brienne, and Brienne’s little helper Podrick. On the horizon, campfire smoke rises from the camp that Lady Stark and her forces have joined.

There are other faces around Lady Stark, some he recognizes, some he doesn’t. Lord Royce he knows, and Yara Greyjoy, as well as Davos. The other man is unknown, but Grey Worm is now familiar enough with the Great Houses sigils to recognize the Tully sigil. He doesn’t know the name of the man, however. There is another, older man, with a sigil of what looks to be lizard on his chest, a young woman with the same sigil standing slightly behind him. There are a few others, simple guards.

Grey Worm and his small party come to stop outside the city walls, before Lady Stark’s group.

“You are very brave,” Grey Worm greets, his common tongue stilted as always. “To face the Queen and her dragon.”

Lady Stark’s hands settle against the back of her brother’s chair. “I assure you, any man who tempts the Queen’s dragon fury is not brave, but stupid. I happen to be neither.”

“Now, now, sister,” her brother – Grey Worm is fairly sure his name is Bran – says. “You point your wrath to the wrong person. Grey Worm, will you lead us to the Dragonpit?”

Lady Stark looks neither chastised nor convinced of her brother’s point, and Grey Worm knows very little of her but he does know she’s not the type of woman to back down over a few warning words. He’s witnessed her stand, back straight, against Queen Daenerys’ fury on several occasions – Grey Worm himself has not ever managed to do it once, not like Lady Stark.

Grey Worm nods once.

“Lord Tully, Pod, Davos, Bran you all stay at the camp,” Lady Stark says. “If we’re not back by sunset, you know what to do.”

Lady Stark gives Grey Worm a pointed look, the threat implied.

His party surrounds theirs, though he lets the men and knight keep their weapons.

“Before we part,” Bran interjects, gaze locking with Grey Worm’s. “Misio, caterpillars must sleep before they can transform into butterflies.”

Grey Worm’s lips part in confusion at the strange riddle from the strange boy. No one else seems to know what he means, not even those in Lady Stark’s group.

“My name is Grey Worm,” he says eventually, unsure what else to do. “Not Misio.”

“Is it?” Bran asks easily, as if he expected such an objection. “My mistake.”

But his gaze stays fixed for several more long moments, long enough that Grey Worm knows Bran _was_ talking to him. And, if nothing else, Grey Worm attaches to the mention of butterflies, because he knows only one who is related to them: Missandei.

Grey Worm shifts on his feet, then turns away.

“Come,” he commands sharply. “The Queen will be waiting.”

Lady Stark lengthens her stride to walk beside him as they make their way to the Dragonpit. Her back is straight, and her shoulders are pulled back, her face carefully not giving away a thing.

Her voice, however, is kind when she says, “I apologize if my brother offended you. He has difficulty knowing which time he’s in, sometimes.”

Grey Worm has neither the language nor the patience to ask the many questions that form on his tongue because of that, but he gives her a simple nod in thanks. They walk together silently, and Grey Worm knows that Lady Stark’s knight is close behind the two.

Lady Stark is looking at him, he knows, and he tries to keep his face clear, but her intent gaze provokes the memory of she and Missandei talking in Winterfell, which only serves to remind Grey Worm of the high stakes he’s found himself in.

“Were you inside the city walls?” Lady Stark ventures. “When it burnt?”

Grey Worm glances over at her, then at the guards around them.

He has to play this right. He has only once chance, and he cannot squander it answering Lady Stark’s questions.

She may have marched one thousand miles south to stand against Daenerys, but Grey Worm doesn’t know her. He cannot trust her not to turn him over in order to curry favour the second they meet with Daenerys.

Her presence is useful to him insofar as it will cause enough of a distraction so Grey Worm can handle Daenerys himself.

He doesn’t answer her, and his cold silence is enough to dissuade Lady Stark from talking with him further.

As they march onwards to the dragonpit, Grey Worm’s mind can’t help but linger with Brandon Stark.

Misio, he’d called him.

Misio.

_Protector._

Sansa

Grey Worm stumbles over his own two feet as he enters the Dragonpit, and Sansa herself almost does as well.

Daenerys stands, front and center, hands clasped across her stomach and her eyes carefully assessing everyone as they file in.

To the side, bound and gagged, sit Varys, Tyrion, Missandei, and _Jon._

It takes every drop of control, every inch of her training not to rush to his side immediately, not to take his face between her hands and pull the gag from his mouth and check his body for injury. But to do so would only prove to Daenerys that her play has worked, and she can’t do that.

Grey Worm does not have as much control of his surprise as Sansa does, and he rushes to his love’s side. Sansa averts her eyes as they reunite, and instead comforts herself by looking over Jon.

He’s looking at her as well, brows pulled together in anguish. His cheeks are thin and sallow, and he sits slightly smaller in his clothes, his hair is longer and matted and so is his beard; but he looks physically uninjured.

His eyes flick to the side, to the Unsullied standing slightly behind him, guarding all four prisoners.

The Unsullied is staring directly at Sansa, face drawn down sourly as the Unsullied often are. They remind her of Northerner’s in that way. But Sansa is fairly sure that that’s no coincidence, not in this situation.

The Unsullied’s face shifts slightly, a smirk pulling up one corner of his mouth as he _winks_ at her.

Arya.

Sansa averts her eyes before she gives anything away.

Daenerys’ attention is divided between Grey Worm and Sansa. Grey Worm is completely intent upon Missandei, his back to Daenerys.

Before Sansa can greet Daenerys, Grey Worm spins back around, gesturing back to Missandei.

“You said she is not your enemy! Not your prisoner!”

“And she won’t be,” Daenerys replies, the same elegant lilt to her tone as always. “Once she’s proven her loyalty.”

Sansa can’t help but wonder how much more loyal Missandei can prove herself to be. Has she not stayed by Daenerys’ side for years? Has she not crossed the Narrow Sea for her?

Sansa is fairly sure that Daenerys’ paranoia stems from the time Missandei spent with Sansa herself while they were North. This level of mistrust feels disproportionate – to treat Missandei the same way she is treating Jon (who has taken one of her kingdoms), or Varys (who Sansa _knows_ has been actively conspiring against her), or Tyrion (who Sansa has received countless amounts of invaluable information from, purposefully or not) – but Daenerys has always been a disproportionate kind of woman.

Grey Worm must agree, because he pulls the gag from Missandei’s mouth gently, knuckles smoothing over her cheekbone.

“I have no reason to question _your_ loyalty, do I, Torgo Nudho?”

Sansa can’t see Grey Worm’s expression, but she does see him press his face closer to Missandei’s; then he straightens up, expression blank, and turns back to Daenerys, hands crossed behind his back.

“No, Myhsa.”

Daenerys nods, pleased, then turns back to Sansa.

Despite the presence of chairs, Daenerys doesn’t offer them the opportunity to sit. Sansa turns to her group – with the retreat of Edmure, Davos, Pod and Bran, it leaves Brienne, Yohn Royce, Howland and Meera Reed, and Yara Greyjoy, as well as a few other trusted fighters – and tilts her head.

Howland and Meera shift closer to Jon and Arya, while Brienne leads Sansa and Royce over to sit opposite them. Yara stays standing, facing off against Daenerys; the Dragon Queen raises a disbelieving brow as Sansa’s party makes themselves at home, but is distracted quickly enough by Yara.

“Daenerys.”

The would-be Queen turns her attention to Yara, an indulgent smile on her face.

“Yara Greyjoy,” she says, appraising the woman up and down. “And here I’d thought I’d offered you everything you wanted.”

Yara crosses her arms. “Turns out Lady Stark can offer the same thing – and she didn’t leave me for dead. And somehow inspired my brother to join a hopeless cause. _And_ she hasn’t killed half a million people.”

“I didn’t either,” Daenerys says, then turns to take a seat in the large throne set in the only unoccupied line of chairs. “I set fire to the Keep. _Cersei_ moved those people there. And I only did that to send a message to the other Kingdoms about what happens when you stand against me. Maybe Sansa Stark had more to do with what happened here than you think?”

Sansa almost scoffs, but Yara takes that glory for herself.

“As far as I’m aware, Sansa Stark didn’t sit atop a dragon and burn the Keep. And it was common knowledge Cersei moved people into the Keep, and you set it on fire anyway. But Cersei’s paid for her crimes and gods be good she’ll be rotting in the deepest circle of hell for the rest of time. _You,_ however, are still yet to be condemned.”

Daenerys runs her finger across her lips in contemplation, but before she can say anything, Sansa uses the moment of silence to reveal her first piece of information.

“Cersei Lannister isn’t dead. She’s taken Dragonstone, in fact.”

Daenerys shoots to her feet, all anger Sansa is sure that was roiling inside her coming bubbling to the surface immediately. “ _What?”_

Brienne, having been the only one who knew that, remains impassive, but everyone else turns to Sansa in various states of surprise; including Jon, who’s brow pulls together in confusion, even though Sansa had told him before he left Winterfell that she thought it likely Cersei wouldn’t be in King’s Landing once Daenerys finally took it to siege.

“She took two boatloads of mercenaries with her, and has been sitting in your home seat for longer than you’ve been sitting on the Throne.”

Daenerys turns to the Unsullied standing beside her – even though Sansa has always been under the impression that Grey Worm is the commander of the Unsullied, it is not to him that she turns. Sansa doesn’t recognize this man, so this must be a new development.

The Unsullied shakes his head, denying any knowledge.

Daenerys turns back to Sansa, lips pulled down. “It’s hard to get reliable assistance these days, isn’t it?” Daenerys asks Sansa, tone flat.

“Obviously not,” Sansa retorts, “considering _I’ve_ been made aware.”

Daenerys, somehow, looks less pleased.

“Why are you here, Sansa?” Daenerys asks, belaying any formal titles. It would make Sansa bristle, if she hadn’t spent years being stripped of every form of power she’d been birthed with. Now, Sansa knows there is no power in a title, and to be denied one is but a petty act from Daenerys. “I assume it’s to bend the knee.”

“The North’s independence has already been negotiated,” Sansa says. It’s the first time in years she’s felt the keen desire to roll her eyes.

“Negotiated with the previous King,” Daenerys corrects, “but he’s been set for execution for attempting to murder me. You and I can renegotiate the terms of the North’s secession.”

“Our position hasn’t changed, and neither has yours,” Sansa replies swiftly, trying to push her mind past the stumbling block of _he’s been set for execution_. “In fact, yours may actually be _worse._ Have you been wondering why Drogon hasn’t returned yet?”

Daenerys’ lips part, an angry flush crawling up her cheeks.

Sansa reveals her second piece of information.

“Bran has been warging in to him, stopping him from returning south every time he tries.”

It is the dark and twisted part of Sansa that takes satisfaction in Daenerys’ alarmed expression, the part of Sansa that had taken to these games swiftly and easily. Sansa pushes onwards, because she can’t stop herself. _Finally_ she is in control of the situation. _Finally_ Daenerys has nothing to hold over her. _Finally,_ Sansa is going to win.

“And you think your depleted Unsullied are enough to win against the Knights of the Vale, the Riverlords, the Iron Fleet _and_ the North? In these snows? No, you’re not in a position bargain, except for you life. And even then, I’m not sure there’s enough bargaining you can do that will convince me to let you live after what you’ve done here.”

Daenerys scrambles for a moment, trying to regain her footing, and she falls back upon the easiest play she can, the one that had worked so well for her Winterfell. “ _You_ let _me_ live? Sure Spear, would you please ungag Jon so he can tell his darling Sansa what I told him? The day of the siege? After Rhaegal died for him, and he tried to get his hands around my throat?”

Sansa’s attention immediately turns to Jon, who is looking wearily between the two women.

But Daenerys doesn’t know what Sansa does, and once again Daenerys unknowingly reveals herself with wholly unequipped against Sansa.

Sure Spear - _Arya_ – turns to Jon and pulls the gag from his mouth. He pulls him up by the arm, and drags him to stand in the middle of the stage. Jon’s eyes are locked with Sure Spear’s – Sansa is sure that they must have some kind of prearranged plan, because neither give much away, but when Sure Spear deposits Jon he moves away from him and over to stand near Daenerys.

There are ten Unsullied in the arena, including Sure Spear and Grey Worm. Five of them stand beside Daenerys, and the other three stand at the base of the stairs that lead to the raised platform they’re all standing on.

Sansa has brought five guards, and Yara, both Reed’s, Lord Royce and Brienne can fight as well, meaning she has ten to fight for her; but once Jon is free, he will fight, and when Arya loses her mask she will fight, and Sansa can practically feel Grey Worm’s divided loyalty now he’s seen Missandei (and considering Bran’s cryptic message earlier, she’s fairly sure Grey Worm was already divided).

Optimistically, it will be twelve against eight, though Grey Worm may abstain completely.

Sansa catches Howland Reed’s gaze, then tilts her head.

Howland takes Sansa’s cue, and nudges Meera. Howland moves slightly towards the other prisoners, away from Jon, and Meera shifts her body closer to Jon. She’s small and inconspicuous, and moves quickly; she’ll be able to move to Jon as soon as any fighting breaks out, and she has a dagger hidden that she’s to give to Jon once the time comes.

Once the Reed’s have moved in to position, Sansa stands, and Brienne does as well, sticking close to her side.

Yohn Royce stays seated, large and conspicuous as he is. Yara moves out of Sansa’s way, towards the side Sansa was just seated at, and then stands on Royce’s other side, the side closest to Daenerys.

Jon watches Sansa’s approach, though he doesn’t say anything, even though his gag has been removed.

She tries to smile at him, but she feels extremely on edge, and she can’t quite muster it. Despite everything, despite what’s happened to him since they parted, he still looks upon her with that tender look that makes her heart melt.

“I told you I’d come for you,” Sansa tells him quietly, stopping before she reaches him. She won’t touch him for the first time in moons while they’re in front of Daenerys. No, that’s something she wants to save for later.

His gaze softens even more, and he mouths, “I love you.”

Jon isn’t one for public displays. He’d opened himself considerably more than Sansa had expected before he’d come south, in that peaceful time between the Long Night and the march south, and in private he’d come to give his affections so quickly and easily that Sansa could never help but reciprocate.

But he’s not one to declare his love for her in front of this many people. No matter that the words were just for her, others would surely have seen.

What has he done since they parted? What has he seen? Why does he feel the need for such a thing to be the first thing he says to her? Not that she minds, of course, but it’s all she needs to know that he’s not as unaffected by the events here as his untouched physicality lets on.

“Go on, Jon. Tell Sansa what I told you.”

Sansa glances over to Daenerys, then back to Jon.

“She told me –“ His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat, then starts again. “She told me that she wanted to make me watch as she burnt Winterfell, as she burnt you. _Killed_ you.”

He stumbles over those last words, and Sansa tries to give him a reassuring smile, tries to let him know that he need not fear that, not from Daenerys. Sansa is taking care of it. Soon, they’ll all be safe.

Sansa walks towards the far side of the platform, towards the other prisoners, Brienne following her, past Jon, past Meera – who has edged even closer to Jon – away from Yohn Royce and Yara, and coming to stop beside Howland.

Daenerys watches her movements closely, as Sansa knew she would. Her attention is so close upon Sansa, that she doesn’t even turn her head as Yara silently steps towards her.

Arya, like always, fucks up Sansa’s carefully laid plans.

The shadows twist around Sure Spear, unnatural and dark, and when they disappear Arya stands in Sure Spear’s place. Before anyone can comprehend what’s happened, Arya has pulled her dagger from it’s sheath and stands behind Daenerys, knife against her throat.

The Unsullied shout in alarm, spears twisting to point towards Arya. Sansa’s party pull their own weapons, wielding them in front of their bodies, ready to move quickly.

Meera moves towards Jon quickly and cuts him free, then hands him a weapon as well. Sansa takes a moment to mourn her original plan, but lets it go almost immediately. This is working out well enough, so far, though she’s sure she’ll have to appease Yara’s lost kill in some way.

“You threaten my sister again,” Arya warns, sharp dagger glinting, “and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

Daenerys raises her hand at her guards, stopping them from engaging immediately.

“You kill me, and Drogon will raze the continent in his vengeance.”

“No, he won’t,” Sansa replies, cold gaze locking with Daenerys’ furious one. “Bran.”

The explanation is enough to make Daenerys’ tempering hand fall. Her Unsullied get only one step forward, before Grey Worm shouts out a strong command in his native tongue.

The Unsullied stop immediately, looking between Grey Worm and Daenerys, who demands quickly, “What are you doing? Kill them!”

Grey Worm speaks again, and comes to stand in front of his forces, spear held upright.

“Sansa?” Arya calls. “Should I just kill her?”

Grey Worm whips his head towards Arya, then around to Sansa.

“No,” he says to Sansa, back in the common tongue. “Just – wait, please.”

Sansa looks around the group, at Yara who looks hungry for blood, at Yohn Royce who has dispensed invaluable information to her and guided her along the way, at the Reed’s who had ridden North as soon as they learnt about Jon, at Brienne who has stayed by Sansa’s side and fought for her when no one else did, at Arya who has fought for Sansa, lied for Sansa, killed for Sansa, at Tyrion and Varys who both look like they might be being given a second chance at life, at _Jon,_ who Sansa had never thought about much as a child, but who Sansa now could never live without, and finally to Grey Worm, who has never had anything to have taken from him, but who does now, with Missandei.

Sansa holds her hand up to Arya, stopping her sister from killing Daenerys.

Grey Worm nods at Sansa gratefully, then turns back to his people. He speaks with an impassioned lilt, and even though Sansa can’t understand him, she can understand the Unsullied’s body language, and Daenerys’.

He’s convincing them not to fight for Daenerys, Sansa is sure of it.

As he speaks, the Unsullied look more and more convinced, slowly lowering their weapons.

Daenerys interjects fiercely, trying to convince them of her side probably; but there’s not much she can say to her cause, not when the stink of smoke and rotting flesh still hangs so heavily in the air.

Finally, the Unsullied stand down completely.

Over Daenerys’ continued pleas for them to fight for her, Grey Worm turns to Sansa.

“She has no army. There is no need for you to kill her.”

Sansa can’t help but soften her gaze at him. She understands that plea, she really does. Daenerys freed him, of course he would want to spare her life –

“I will do it myself.”

Grey Worm spins on his heel, spear twisting in his hand, and Sansa blinks in shock.

“Hey, back up,” Arya says fiercely, dagger digging deeper into Daenerys’ neck as Grey Worm stalks towards them.

“ _Arya,”_ Sansa warns. “Grey Worm, wait a moment.”

But he doesn’t answer to her.

“You said we were free,” he says, speaking the common tongue to Daenerys, who looks just as shocked at Grey Worm’s anger, “you said we weren’t slaves. But you have put Missandei in chains again. You are not Myhsa, you are a master.”

Daenerys shakes her head rapidly, mouth opening and closing, but no words come out.

Desperately,Sansa catches Arya’s eye and jerks her head, commanding Arya to back away. Her sister, thank the gods, does as bid, and removes the dagger and steps away.

Daenerys almost doesn’t notice, but at the last minute she does, and she stumbles towards Grey Worm.

“Torgo Nudho, no, no. You know my destiny, you know me. I just had to make sure that our Missandei didn’t stand in the way. Nothing can stand in my way. You’ve seen how these people live, you can see they need guidance and benevolence, and I can give it to them.”

“You put her in chains,” Grey Worm repeats. “You put us all in your chains. But Unsullied have no master. We _kill_ all masters.”

His spear twists in his hands, and Sansa steps forward, “Wait!” falling desperately from her lips, because she was going to do the right, she was going to give Daenerys a trial, but Grey Worm will have none of it.

The point of his spear strikes true, straight through Daenerys’ heart.

The Dragon Queen gasps, blood dribbling from her mouth.

The amphitheater goes completely quiet as they all listen to the woman’s final breaths, as she falls to her knees, eyes hooded.

She looks down at the spear sticking from her chest, hands twitching by her sides as if she wants to touch the protruding weapon. When she looks back up at those standing around her, those who have outplayed her, those who have killed her, there are tears in her eyes and so looks so _young._

“I just wanted to break the wheel,” she whispers, and they are her final words.

Her body slumps to the ground. Sansa can’t tear her eyes from her, not when Brienne sheaths her sword, not when Arya joins Sansa, not when Yara, rather inappropriately, says, “Will I get to kill _someone_ today?”, not when Grey Worm cuts Missandei free, not when Royce does the same for Tyrion and Varys, and not when the Reed’s go over to Daenerys to gently move her body into a more dignified position, Howland covering the corpse with his cloak.

It is only Jon who pulls her gaze, when he cups her face gently in his hands and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

She winds her arms around his waist tightly, burrowing her head in his neck and expelling her thoughts of the doomed Queen.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers, kissing his neck. He smells awful, but Sansa doesn’t mind.

She wants to kiss him properly, but now is not the time. She pulls from his grasp, though not completely, her arm still slotted through his, then turns to Varys and Tyrion, eyes sharp on them.

“Varys wanted to spread the truth of my parentage,” Jon whispers to her as he turns to the pair as well.

“He already did,” Sansa replies. “Sent the news to anyone he could. That’s why the Reed’s are here.”

“Fucking hell,” Jon swears under his breath. “Godsdamned southerners.”

“He won’t spread any more secrets, or any more lies,” Sansa vows, and she knows Varys can hear her because he’s starting to look more than slightly apprehensive.

“Brienne,” Sansa calls, “sit them both back down, would you?”

Brienne almost smiles, and moves towards the pair.

The two take their own initiative, and seat themselves back in their chairs, looking upon she and Jon.

They must look a fearsome sight, she in her armoured dress and tightly braided hair, and he on her arm, unwashed and unkempt as he is, and still holding himself with the regality of a King, dagger in hand.

“Lord Varys,” Sansa starts, because he is easiest, “you have committed more crimes against my family than I’d care to count, and you aided Daenerys in her quest to conquer Westeros and take the throne.”

He doesn’t speak, or offer any argument against her statement, instead appraising her in that quiet way of his.

Sansa shifts her eyes to Tyrion.

Before she can condemn him, he opens his mouth to speak, as he always does.

“Lady Sansa, we’ve shared some pleasant times together, you and I.”

Jon’s arm tightens under Sansa’s hand. She squeezes his bicep reassuringly, and keeps her gaze on Tyrion.

“You know me as well as anyone,” Tyrion continues. “If I’d known what she was –“

“I find it hard to believe you didn’t,” Sansa interrupts. “Your first day in Winterfell, you told me stories about Daenerys that I’ll never forget. About what she did in Essos, and the role you played. You mean to tell me you think yourself a clever man, and yet you couldn’t even see a tyrant when she was right in front of your eyes?”

Tyrion goes silent with unease as Sansa pins him with an unrelenting glare.

He starts again, more wary this time. “I was your friend in King’s Landing. Perhaps you would be a friend to me now.”

Sansa is shaking her head before he even finishes.

“It’s true, I had very little friends in King’s Landing. Looking back, there is only one that I know gained nothing by being kind to me, who risked her life to help me, and you killed her. If I could have your head, to bring justice for Shae, I would.”

Tyrion pales in his seat, eyes wide as he looks at her.

Sansa’s gaze drifts back to Daenerys’ covered body. She’s had enough of killing. She’s had enough of the cycle.

“Grey Worm,” Sansa calls.

Tyrion positively trembles in his seat as Grey Worm stalks over to Sansa, but Varys does not look afraid. He only watches with his calculating eyes.

“You’ll be sailing back to Essos?” Sansa asks, but it is not a much of a question as she makes it out to be.

Grey Worm looks upon Sansa’s face for a moment, then nods.

“Yes. We will all be leaving Westeros.”

“I understand that Daenerys left several conquered cities behind, in complete socioeconomic ruin.”

Grey Worm nods again, his own eyes drifting to Daenerys, then snapping back to Sansa.

“My professional advice,” Sansa starts kindly, “is that these two aren’t to be trusted. Unfortunately, however, they might be able to provide you with some assistance as you try to fix what Daenerys ruined.”

Grey Worm looks upon Tyrion and Varys, lip curling down in distaste, but he nods again anyway.

“Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys,” Sansa says, voice travelling through the space, “for your crimes against House Stark, and the assistance you gave Daenerys Targaryen that resulted in the murder of half a million people of King’s Landing, I hereby banish you forevermore from Westeros, stripping you of all lands and titles you hold here.”

They both close their eyes, in relief or disappointment, Sansa can’t be sure, but she’s dealt her sentence and is done with them now.

Sansa turns away from them, exhausted deep into her bones, but there’s one last thing she needs to do today.

“I need to go to the Keep,” Sansa murmurs to Jon. “I need to find the Throne.”

 

It takes several hundred men and all afternoon, but Sansa stays and watches until they find it.

Jon had gone with Arya to the camp to bathe, but they have since returned, along with Bran. Yohn Royce and Yara have been put in charge of organizing the Unsullied’s departure, and Varys and Tyrion have been escorted back to the camp to be held there until they can be put on boat’s themselves.

The Throne is a melted heap when it’s finally unearthed, but Sansa doesn’t care. It’s still recognizable enough, a misshapen lump but still with some distinctive sword shapes.

Arya wheels Bran, and Sansa and Jon walk arm in arm behind them, as the last remaining Stark’s follow what remains of the Throne being hauled down to the harbor.

It’s almost comical to watch the lump be put in a small sailing boat. Arya and two soldiers maneuver Bran up the ramp and into the boat, and Jon holds Sansa’s hand to steady her as they follow.

The boat sets out from the dock, away from the city.

An anchor is thrown overboard, King’s Landing still in sight as the ship bobs on the water.

“Father would be proud of us,” Arya says quietly as the Throne is hauled to the rails of the boat.

“As would mother,” Sansa adds.

“And Robb,” Jon says, voice rumbling deeply in his emotion.

“And Rickon,” Bran says.

 _And Theon,_ Sansa thinks but doesn’t say.

“I miss them so much,” Arya says, hand resting against the rail as she stares at the ruin of King’s Landing.

“So do I,” Bran replies quietly.

Sansa leans her head against Jon’s shoulder. He wraps his arm around her waist, kissing the top of her head.

Seven strong Northmen struggle to get the melted lump hoisted onto the rail, but they manage.

Sansa pulls herself from Jon, then presses a bare hand against the heap. Her eyes close, as she thinks of all that was stolen from her because of it, and when she opens them her family stands strong beside her.

“For everyone whose lives were ruined because of it,” Sansa says.

It tips over the side.

Sansa presses against the railing, looking down into the waves and watching the Iron Throne disappear and sink to the bottom of the sea.

 


	8. The Iron Throne Pt II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. Y'ALL. this chap is ... pretty emotional ngl. it's a lot. but it's the cersei/sansa confrontation we've all been so excited about, so i hope you all enjoy it immensely. 
> 
> everyone be on the lookout for my not so subtle nod to b99 bc I just couldn’t help myself. 
> 
> this chap is dedicated to @asongforjonsa and her bff, who have provided me with a lot of laughs this week – I hope you both enjoy this one!

 

Jon

Jon didn’t ever really think that Sansa wouldn’t come for him.

Even before she’d told him, that day that he’d left Winterfell to fight in Daenerys war that she would come no matter what, he’d known. _Especially_ when he’d told Arya that he’d hoped Sansa wouldn’t come.

No, Jon has come to know her well enough to know that she was always going to come south after him.

And yet, when he’d seen her arrive in the Dragonpit, looking like some kind of – of warrior goddess, he’d been surprised. He and Arya had had a plan, and they were going to fix it, they were going to stop Daenerys from hurting anyone else. And to see Sansa there, his beautiful, non-combatant Sansa walk right in to the middle of what Jon knew would become a bloodbath, he’d felt so hopeless. Helpless.

But, as always, he’d underestimated her. Sansa has proven time and time again that she’s more capable than he is, and that’s why when she says that Yara is going to take them over to Dragonstone to confront Cersei, he just nods his head and goes along with it.

The day after the Dragonpit meeting, Sansa disappears from his tent in the early morning, but he doesn’t wake up until it’s almost time for the midday meal. He’d been in his cot when Sansa had snuck in, and despite his best efforts, he’d been asleep before she’d even slipped into the bed. And then she was gone in the morning, and he hadn’t seen her all day.

After supper that evening, when the fires are burnt low and there aren’t enough people walking around to see Sansa sneak from her adjacent tent and into his, Jon is laid in bed, waiting for her.

Sansa pulls the tent flaps closed behind her quickly, and Jon is up from the cot before she’s even turned back to him. His lips seek hers immediately, and Jon grins against her mouth as he swallows her surprised gasp.

His hands settle against her waist, pulling her hips to his quickly and roughly. Jon tugs her bottom lip between his teeth, then laves over it with his tongue, drawing a whine from her throat. Sansa settles her hands against his chest, clutching his thick woolen sleep shirt in her fingers; the moan he draws from her as he slides his hands up her back makes him greedy and urges him to kiss her harder, faster, to tug at her waist and guide her backwards.

Jon’s knees hit the cot and he falls back; Sansa follows, knees planting on either side of his hips.

“ _Sansa._ ”

His mouth travels from her lips to her neck, nipping her jugular as he cups her jaw with one hand to turn her head to the side so he can access more of her soft skin.

Her hips roll against his, and she keens again, high pitched and wild, and it drives him absolutely mad. Jon wraps his arms about her waist so he can flip her over, and once he has her beneath him he bears her further into the bed, settling his hips in the cradle of her thighs, one elbow braced against the pillow beside her head, the other hand flattening against her chest, where her collarbone meets her throat.

He rocks into her, almost frenzied in his desperation, and the motion prompts her to hook her ankles together behind his back. The deep blue skirts she wearing fall further down her thighs, baring the slightest bit of his skin; the hand against her décolletage immediately moves to seek out the searing warmth of skin on skin, but it doesn’t stop at her thigh. Instead, his hand quickly travels from cupping her thigh and up to her hip, drawing her skirts as high up as he can.

But it isn’t enough; Jon needs her, craves her, like he never has before. Being parted from her has built his desire up fiercely, like when he went to Dragonstone the first time, except this time they’re reunited and he _can_ touch, he _can_ take her, and he’s going to, gods, he’s going to.

Lips having to break from hers, Jon pushes himself up, high enough that he can roll her slightly to get at the laces at her back.

They’re difficult, especially with one hand, especially when he’s as kiss-drunk as he is, and in the time it takes him to try and get them loose, Sansa alternates between undoing his own laces and sucking loudly at his neck. Desperate and unable to get it loose, he grunts and grips one half of the dress in his fist and tears. The sound of clothes ripping fills the tent, and as soon as he’d done it Jon half expects Sansa to scold him.

But she doesn’t, instead moaning again, then wriggling to help him get the godsforsaken thing off.

His shirt quickly joins the ripped dress on the floor, and then his breeches do as well, and when Jon settles himself back between her legs, the delicious feeling of her skin on his makes his brain go completely wild and blank all at the same time.

Jon takes her lips in his again, pulling and tugging harshly, but Sansa gives as good as she gets. He rocks into her again, then pushes one of his hands between their tightly pressed bodies. Jon wastes no time in sliding his hand underneath her smallclothes, and when his fingers find her nub and start to circle tightly, her fists tighten painfully in his hair.

Jon pulls back from her slightly, sliding his hand down to her entrance, groaning loudly at the slick heat he finds.

“Fuck, Sansa, _fuck.”_

He easily slides his middle finger inside her, pumping slowly a couple times. Her hips rise up to meet his hand eagerly, so he quickly adds a second finger.

“Gods, I’ve dreamt about getting my mouth on you,” Jon mutters, lowering his head to lick a line from the top of her breast to the base of her throat. “I missed the taste of your sweet cunt.”

Sansa whines again, hands flying above her head to grip the edge of the cot.

“Jon, more, please, _please,_ more!”

He follows her instruction eagerly, adding a third finger. Her hips meet his thrusts readily, and Jon is not sure he’s ever been more turned on in his entire life; his cock aches in his smallclothes, desperate to be inside her. If she asks him to fuck her properly tonight, he doesn’t think he has the willpower to deny her. Not when they’re like this, panting harshly, bodies writhing, their desire so thick it’s almost suffocating.

Jon takes one of her nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak then flicking the tip in the way he’s come to learn drives her mad. He repeats the action several more times, then moves to her other breast, all the while keeping up a furious pace in her cunt. He’s rewarded quickly enough; her walls flutter around him, and when he pops her breast from his mouth to scrape his teeth against the top of her tit, her back arches and her cunt _clenches_ and she moans his name so loudly that anyone walking by will have no doubt as to what is happening in here.

He continues to push through her orgasm, only pulling his now-slick fingers from her when she shoves desperately at his shoulder, sensitive and overcome from the force of her peak.

Her chest heaves as she pants heavily, eyes closed and hands still above her head.

Jon continues to suck on her skin as she tries to calm herself; he’s unable to help himself, the salt tinged taste of her making all thought flee his mind except _more, more, more_ and he ruts into her like a complete animal.

But he can’t even care about how debased he’s acting. Jon hasn’t seen her in _moons,_ and he’s missed her in the most desperate of ways, so much it had constantly felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest. He’d imagined the beautiful blue of her eyes to keep him going when he hadn’t wanted to go any further; he’d imagined the scent of her on his pillows when he couldn’t sleep; he’d remembered what it was like to have his head between her thighs, the sweet taste of her, the needy noises she makes; in his darkest moments, his loneliest moments, the moments when there was nothing keeping him alive other than the connection of his soul with hers, he’d imagined what it would be like to finally marry her properly, beneath the heart tree, and to watch her stomach grow with his babe and fill the halls of Winterfell with their children.

Jon sucks a purple mark on the top of her breast, then another on the underside of it, and when he moves to the valley between the two her back arches and her hand sneaks between them and slides into his smallclothes.

“Oh, fuck, _fuck,”_ Jon mutters, head falling forward until his forehead braces against her chest, his unbound curls likely splaying everywhere.

Her hand curls around his aching cock, stroking him up and down and he rocks shallowly into her fist. Sansa’s thighs tighten around his hips, and it encourages him to use his spare hand to cup the back of her thigh, sliding it down to squeeze her arse. The action prompts her to hold his cock harder, to pull faster, and before long he’s a trembling mess above her. He doesn’t even try to hold off on his peak, too desperate to do much else other than spill his seed inside his smallclothes.

With unsteady arms he lowers himself beside her, draping one arm over her stomach and pillowing his head on her shoulder.

The bite of winter chills his sweat slicked skin quickly, and even though he is completely spent, Jon manages to pull his spoiled smallclothes off his legs and chuck them to the ground, and afterwards Sansa pulls the furs up over them both.

One of her hands comes up to stroke through his curls, and Jon practically purrs against her chest in his contentedness.

“I missed you,” Sansa whispers.

Jon nuzzles further into her.

“Gods, I was so scared you’d die,” she says, and he can hear her throat choked with tears.

Jon’s eyes are closed, and his energy is too low to do much more than hum, but he tightens his grip around her waist, pressing a kiss to her skin.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Sansa continues, quieter this time. “I wouldn’t have survived if you’d died down here.”

Jon’s eyes open at that, and while he hadn’t had the energy to even respond to her a moment ago, he feels the distinct need to look at her now. He presses up onto his elbow, resting his chin on the palm of his hand so he can look down at her.

Her lashes are wet with unshed tears, and he reaches up to feather his fingertips against the slope of her cheek.

“You would have,” he whispers back, “you’re the strongest person I know.”

She shakes her head, then turns her face away from him, reaching up to wipe her eye. “No, that’s not –“ She sighs, then shakes her head again, avoiding his gaze. “Just forget I said anything.”

Jon purses his lips, fingers curling against her stomach. He flattens his hand again, then starts to draw small circles with his index finger.

“I’m not – you know I’m not good with words,” Jon starts, then clears his throat awkwardly. Sansa turns to him slightly, brows scrunching together in a way that Jon finds extremely adorable. He reaches up to smooth the lines with his thumb. “But I – I’ve never loved someone – _needed_ someone – like I do you. You – you’re my everything. My soulmate, my mate, the love of my life – whatever you want to call it, you’re _everything_ to me.”

Jon lowers his hand from her face to her neck, tracing a line down the column of her throat. His eyes follow the movement and she shudders under his touch. Jon moves his hand over her collarbone, then rests his palm over her heart.

“I understand exactly what you mean because I – because I feel the same way,” Jon continues, quieter this time. “If something had happened to you, I don’t think I could have lived through it.”

She smiles slightly, then whispers, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

Jon grins down at her, fondness softening his features. He smooths his hand back up her chest to cup her face, and then guides her lips to his softly. He pulls away for a second, their breath mingling together in the small space between their lips, and then he kisses her again. He opens his mouth slightly, and hers follows willingly; he sighs into her mouth, the sigh of a man who would be prefer to be nowhere other than right here.

Sansa pulls away from him, eyes still closed and smile playing on her lips, and she nudges her nose against his.

“I love you,” she whispers, “more than anything.”

He kisses her again, briefly, then lowers himself beside her. “I love you, too.”

They both settle into silence, in which Sansa’s fingers wind themselves into his hair, and he continues to trace patterns onto her waist, until sleep starts to pull at him.

“The Unsullied will start to ship out tomorrow,” Sansa murmurs to him after a few minutes. Jon has to shake himself awake to focus on her words, but he feels absolutely spent and doesn’t quite manage it. “Yara is taking us to Dragonstone personally.”

He hums, though he makes a note to remember to ask her what the plan is in the morning. For now, however, he wants to bask in the peace that is Sansa.

“Stop planning,” he mumbles, turning his head slightly to kiss her skin. “Just . . . let me be in your arms.”

Sansa settles into the pillows, running her fingertips up his side, her other hand still raking through his curls.

He sighs happily, snuggling further into her side, and through his foggy mind, he manages to mumble out, “Thank you, Sansa.”

“What for?” she whispers back.

“For coming south for me,” he replies, though he’s not sure she understands his quiet speech. “And for . . . I didn’t want to be the one to kill her. So selfish . . . but thank gods it wasn’t me.”

He feels her kiss the top of his head, and the pull of sleep is so strong now he doesn’t know if he imagines her say, “You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to again.”

 

Before the sun rises, when the night is at its darkest point, Jon jolts upright in the cot, panting heavily and shaking. His nightmare still grips him fiercely, and he clutches at his chest, feeling the knife sliding between his ribs and the heat of a city burning down while he stands and watches.

Jon rips the furs away; he catches on something hard and heavy in the bed as he tries to scramble out of the cot, and he tumbles from the bed and onto his knees on the ground.

His palms slam against the ground and he bends forward, panic and desperation clawing up in him as he tries to draw in a breath, tries to stand up, but he can’t, and he feels hot, so fucking hot, like he’s on fire, like _everything_ is on fire, like the world is burning down around him. His panic is only reinforced as he gulps for air and tastes and smells the now familiar scent of the rotting King’s Landing.

He hears his name called from behind him, but he can’t think, he can’t breathe, he can’t push himself up and his entire body shakes.

Cool hands smooth over his back, and Jon flinches away from them, the feeling of a cold knife and his murderous brother’s hands on his chest still pounding in his mind. The hands disappear, but are replaced with soft, soothing words.

“Jon, my love, it’s me, it’s Sansa. You’re safe now baby, listen to my voice. Will you breathe in with me? Breathe with me, okay, breathe in, one, two, three, four.”

The knife is still twisting in his heart, the world is still burning, but the voice keeps going gently, keeps instructing him to listen.

His breath chokes in his throat, and firmer now, he hears, “Jon, _listen,_ breathe with me. In for four – one, two, three, four. And out, one, two, three, four.”

She repeats, and repeats, and suddenly Jon finds he’s following along with the breathing before he’s made the decision to do so.

“That’s good, that’s good, Jon, let’s keep going, alright?”

He nods weakly, unable to speak, unable to lift his head from where his brow is braced against the ground, but able to follow along.

It’s takes a long time, and his companion is ever gentle with him, ever patient, but eventually the weight on his chest lifts, the cold of the dagger disappears, the heat of the fire recedes, and he can recognize it’s Sansa beside him.

He still can’t open his eyes, he still can’t turn his head, he needs more time for that, but he reaches out blindly with one hand, seeking Sansa’s.

She catches his hand easily, twining her fingers in his, then murmurs, “Can I touch you now sweetheart?”

He hesitates, unsure what it will provoke, but her thumb smooths over his knuckles and he finds he craves that comfort. Jon nods again, and slowly, keeping one hand entwined with his, she lets her other travel up his arm, over his shoulder, then rubs gentle circles on his back.

The repetition of it numbs his emotion enough for feeling to travel back into his body; but his mind is still bombarded, still crashing with the thoughts and images of Daenerys and King’s Landing and Olly and Ygritte and nameless smallfolk and wildings and the Night King and gods, he’d come so close to losing Arya and Bran and _Sansa._

“You’re safe, Jon. I’m safe. I won’t let anything else happen to you. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

_I’ll protect you, I promise._

This breaks through, more than anything else.

Jon struggles to sit up, knowing enough of bone deep exhaustion to know it’s settling over him yet again, and Sansa’s hands catch him, helping him back in to the cot. She helps him sit on the edge, then grips his shoulders tightly to lower him back into laying down.

She disappears for a second, and he’s fairly sure he protests, because she’s back a moment later, a cool cloth in hand and wiping over his forehead. It’s a relieving feeling, enough to make his shoulders loosen.

Slowly, his eyes open, not completely, but enough that he can see Sansa above him, her hair loose around her worried face. She smiles down at him, the cool cloth swiping down his temple and over his cheekbone. She’s an absolute vision, and it spreads warmth through his chest.

Sansa is the only reason he’s alive, and it’s true so many times over. She saved him at Castle Black, she saved him during the Battle of the Bastards, she saved him on Dragonstone, she saved him at Winterfell, and she’s saved him from King’s Landing. Gods, he _loves_ her, with his entire body and soul; more than he’s ever loved anyone or anything. He genuinely couldn’t live with out her.

“Tell me something,” Jon mumbles, eyes slipping closed again.

“Like what?” she asks quietly, still dragging the cloth over his face.

“Something good.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, pushing his curls back from his face, the cloth away.

“You.”

He grunts in disagreement, and replies, “ _You.”_

Jon hears her pad away from the cot for a second, then she returns, slipping in to the bed beside him.

Sansa presses a quick kiss to his shoulder, then settles herself beside him, draping her arms around his waist to hold him close to her.

Her hands pick up their repetitive ministrations again, sending his mind blank enough that he thinks he’ll be easily be able to find sleep.

“Something good?” she repeats quietly, kissing the curve of his shoulder again. “Us.”

 

Sansa

Sansa doesn’t go down to the docks to see off Varys or Tyrion – though she made sure they were both actually _on_ the boat – or even to say goodbye to Grey Worm.

She goes down to apologize to Missandei.

Sansa knows that she did actually put effort into guiding Missandei towards realizing the truth of Daenerys, and she knows that sounds a lot like manipulation. She also knows that telling Missandei that their conversations were actually planned is likely to cause more hurt than just letting the past remain in the past would; but Sansa feels the need to apologise.

Sansa stands beside Missandei on the docks, watching as Yara and Grey Worm organise the departure of the Unsullied aboard the Iron Fleet.

Yara had demanded compensation for the act, which is unsurprising, and Sansa had quietly agreed, despite the fact that she has yet to figure out where she’s going to get the gold.

While her fleet is taking the Unsullied back to Essos, Yara herself is going to take Sansa over to Dragonstone.

That had been easy to convince her to do, no payment required.

“I didn’t get to put my sword in Daenerys’ stomach, but I want to put it through Euron’s more. You let me kill him, I’ll take you there, and back to White Harbour.”

Sansa had easily agreed.

“Missandei,” Sansa says, turning to the other woman. “Are you going to go home?”

Missandei purses her lips, and looks out over the shipyards.

“Daenerys left a man, Daario Naharis, in control of the Bay of Dragons,” Missandei reveals. “I don’t know what state it’s in now, and I don’t know how I will be able to help . . . but I am free now. I want to free them, too.”

A noble cause, Sansa thinks.

“One day,” Missandei says, a few moments later, wistful eyes on the horizon. “One day I will go home. But not yet.”

Sansa nods, unsure she would be able to do what Missandei is, to put aside going home when presented with the first opportunity to do so in years.

“Missandei,” Sansa starts hesitantly, “I want to apologize.”

Missandei turns to Sansa, a contemplative look on her face.

“I know she took you prisoner because we spoke so much in Winterfell,” Sansa elaborates.

“We didn’t, though, did we?” Missandei murmurs. “We spoke when we were locked in the crypts together, and once when Daenerys and Jon were together . . . but we had no other time together.”

Sansa purses her lips, unsure what to say.

“I know you tried to make me realize,” Missandei continues. “And I know you had a vested interest in making me turn on Daenerys.”

Sansa winces, Missandei grasping exactly what Sansa feels guilty about.

“But I’m my own woman.” Missandei puts her hand on Sansa’s arm. “If it hadn’t been true, I wouldn’t have listened to you. I should have realized sooner, truthfully.”

Sansa shakes her head quickly, because Sansa doesn’t blame Missandei at all. “No. No. She was very charismatic. I understand why you didn’t.”

Before either Missandei or Sansa can say anything more, Grey Worm appears before them, hands clasped behind his back.

“Lady Stark,” he greets quietly. “Missandei, our ship is ready.”

Sansa feels an unexpected pang at the prospect of saying goodbye. While she’d spoken with Missandei several times in Winterfell, she’d not truly befriended either of them. But this goodbye is permanent, and Sansa _hates_ permanent goodbyes, no matter who they’re to.

They both look at her pensively, obviously unsure how to part.

They each look so different to when she first met them. They are undeniably older now, deep lines etched into their faces that weren’t there before. Tired and aged beyond their years, as Sansa often feels she is.

Sansa cups both their cheeks gently.

“Neither of you have any reason to repent,” she murmurs to them. Missandei’s breath hitches, while Grey Worm looks at her with an intense gaze. “Neither of you ever had a choice, no matter what she made you think. And when it mattered . . . you did the right thing.”

Missandei nods, tears in her eyes, but Grey Worm looks away.

Sansa’s hand drops from his face to his shoulder. “Grey Worm,” she urges. “You did the right thing.”

But Sansa has misunderstood his regret. He turns slightly, eyes falling on the destroyed city at Sansa’s back.

“Your people . . .” he murmurs.

“My people will be alright,” Sansa says firmly. “You saved them from anything further happening. Be proud, Grey Worm.”

His eyes lock back on hers. She can tell he doesn’t believe her, not truly, but he believes her enough to shake his head and correct her. “Misio,” he says. “My name is Misio.”

“Misio,” Sansa repeats, smiling. Bran wasn’t so wrong, after all.

“It means protector,” Missandei adds quietly.

Sansa lets a larger grin spread across her face. “ _Misio.”_

 

With Brienne by her side, Sansa makes her way back up from the docks and to the camp. The path takes her through King’s Landing, avoiding the main part of the destruction, but the damage is not limited just to what’s burnt down.

Smallfolk have started to trickle back in to the city, some settling back in the houses left, some just coming to collect what they left behind. Rioting and looting have been kept to be a minimum, but only because of the presence of Sansa’s soldiers. She’s under no illusions about the state King’s Landing will be in as soon as they depart; it’s likely going to become a very dangerous city.

Sansa can’t stay south for much longer, not when there’s no Stark in Winterfell, but she won’t abandon these people. She’s unsure what to do yet, but she’s sure she’ll figure something out.

When Sansa finally makes it back to camp, there’s no shortage of things for her to do. She meets with Howland Reed and Yohn Royce, who both try to discourage her of going to Dragonstone; she meets with Davos, who agrees to ride North with the northern forces as soon as possible; she has a general meeting with Edmure, Howland, Yohn, Bran about what to do about the people; and she tries to figure out where she can more food from.

Sansa visits the sick bay, where the wounded soldiers and smallfolk are, and she goes to the makeshift orphanage Davos had had set up during Jon’s imprisonment. She walks through the lines and lines of tents filled with refugees, and, when the day is finally drawing to a close, she sits down at her desk to pen a variety of letters, including to the remaining Great Houses.

Jon finds her there, a plate of supper in hand and Arya and Bran at his back.

Jon sets the plate down on her table, and the smell of the grilled pork makes Sansa realize just how hungry she is.

Sansa passes Jon over the scroll she just finished penning, then picks up the roll of bread as Jon takes a seat on her cot, Bran beside him.

Arya stays standing, looking around the tent, but when Jon hums in contemplation, Arya takes a seat beside him and looks over his shoulder. He passes her the scroll, and she reads it herself, several times, and then finally looks up at Sansa.

“Jaime was your spy?” Arya asks, hands settling in her lap.

Sansa nods, smiling gently at her sister. She won’t bring up Arya’s decision to journey south in spite of Sansa’s plan, because Arya has suffered enough due to that decision and she doesn’t need Sansa adding to that pain.

Arya holds up the scroll. “And this is why?” she asks, eyeing the paper again. “So that you could . . .”

Sansa nods again.

“When do we leave for Dragonstone?” Jon asks, standing to put the scroll back on Sansa’s desk.

Sansa chews slowly, pondering the question. The Unsullied will be shipped out over the next three days, and Yara refuses to leave King’s Landing until then. It will take six weeks for the other Lords and Ladies to arrive in King’s Landing from their respective corners of Westeros, and Sansa and Jon have to stay south until then. Arya and Bran can, of course, return North immediately, but she’s not discussed it with either of them so she’s not sure what they want to do.

Even if they all stay here for six more weeks, it’s still best if Cersei is dealt with quickly. Sansa can’t risk her deciding to come back to the mainland after hearing Daenerys is dead.

“As soon as Yara will take us,” Sansa decides. “Three days.”

Bran shakes his head. “She’ll be done in two.”

“Two days, then,” Sansa revises easily, smiling at her brother.

He smiles back at her, a gentle, easy smile.

Sansa had missed Bran terribly over the years, her sweet, curious little brother, and being reunited with him as a man had been bittersweet. He may have looked like Bran, but he wasn’t anymore, not really. To have even a piece of him back now is a gift that Sansa cherishes.

“I’ll stay here in the city,” Bran says. “You won’t be there long. Sansa and Jon, you must go, but no one else is needed.”

Sansa purses her lips, unsure.

When she lays in her cot at night, staring at the roof of her tent, Sansa worries that she won’t be able to stop herself from demanding Cersei’s head as soon as she lays her eyes upon the older woman. Jon would be unlikely to deny her if she asked it of him.

Sansa had been planning to bring others, just to temper her worst impulses.

“I’ll think about it,” Sansa says, then cuts of some of the meat so she can fill her mouth and not say anything more.

Jon eyes her closely, but she shakes her head at him slightly and he turns away.

“How are the pups doing?” Jon asks Bran, leaning back slightly on Sansa’s cot.

Arya’s face lights up in curiosity, while a large smile passes over Bran’s face.

Jon had revealed to Sansa early this morning how keenly he’s been able to feel Ghost since Rhaegal died, the hole the dragon’s death had left quickly filled by Ghost. The direwolf pines for him, Jon had said, and for Sansa almost as much, but is waiting patiently for their return by looking after the pups.

Sansa had laughed, and said Ghost didn’t seem the paternal type, but Jon had shaken his head and said, “Well, he likes protecting you, doesn’t he?”

Bran gets a faraway look in his eyes, fingers splaying out over his lap.

“Everyone loves Jenny,” Bran starts. Sansa can’t help but smile already. Jenny, her beautiful Jenny, has the calmest, most even temper, and Sansa adores her. “They like Dawn as well, but she’s a bit temperamental. She’s taken to nipping people’s fingers, and tugging at the hems of their clothes.”

Sansa frowns - she’ll have to train that out of her – but Arya chuckles and rolls her eyes adoringly.

“Which one is Dawn?” she asks.

Sansa blinks, having forgotten that Arya hadn’t met them with their names.

“Light brown and white,” Sansa answers softly. “Jenny is the white and grey one. They’re both mine.”

“The light brown is mine,” Bran adds. “Spot.”

Arya screws up her face. “What the fuck?” she demands. “She’s _one_ colour, Bran. Why the _fuck_ did you name her Spot?”

Sansa scowls at Arya’s language and tuts, “Unnecessary,” but they all ignore her.

“It’s cute,” Bran replies to Arya. “I like it.”

“Gods, I should have _known_ you’d name her something weird,” Arya says, rolling her eyes. “And Lomas?”

Bran shrugs. “I don’t think I want to tell you.”

Arya’s eye twitches as Sansa holds her hand to her mouth, smothering a laugh. Jon looks between Arya and Bran warily, while the two siblings glare at each other fiercely.

Arya, surprisingly, breaks first, dramatically falling to her knees in front of Bran.

Bran looks down his nose at her, lifting an imperious brow.

“ _Please,_ all-seeing, all-knowing Bran. Tell me how Lomas is.”

“Really, Arya?” Sansa scoffs, smiling widely. “Begging seems most unlike you. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Arya stays kneeling, turning a serious expression to Sansa. “If anything ever happened to him I’d kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

Sansa blinks rapidly and opens her mouth, shocked, then closes it again, unsure what to say – and a little unsure as whether or not she’s serious.

“O- _kay_ ,” Jon interrupts, standing, looking thoroughly put out. “That’s enough dramatics for now, children. Off you go, quickly now, Sansa has to eat.”

Sansa rolls her eyes at him, at how much like an exasperated father he sounds, but Arya jumps to her feet.

“As if you won’t distract her even more,” Arya says, circling behind Bran’s chair to wheel him out.

“Oh no, they’re both very tired, Arya,” Bran says. “They didn’t get any sleep last night.”

Sansa’s face heats up immediately, and she presses her hands to cheeks, thoroughly embarrassed.

“Bran!” Jon immediately reprimands, leaping to his feet and crossing his arms.

“Gods, Bran, gross,” Arya mutters, face screwed up in disgust.

“It was rather sweet, actually, Jon had a terrible nightmare, and they stayed up together,” Bran adds, face straight. “What did _you_ think I meant?”

A smirk passes over his face, so Sansa knows he knows _exactly_ what they all thought he meant.

“ _Bran,”_ Sansa says sternly, standing, trying to gain some composure. “What have I told you about spying on us?”

“Not to do it,” Bran replies guiltily.

Sansa sighs, shaking her head fondly. “Alright, both of you, out,” she says. “Get some sleep.”

“Only if you promise to do the same!” Arya says cheerfully, wiggling her brows.

“ _Arya!”_ Sansa and Jon shout, aghast.

Sansa thought that Arya would be on their side, as unwilling to talk about their private life as she and Jon are; she’s been so upset about it until now.

Arya cackles in delight. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. “But both your faces went so red before, and I had to recreate it. It worked, so, it was worth it.”

Ah. Arya does love to embarrass people.

“Okay, you both really need to go now,” Sansa mutters, moving to open the tent door for them.

Arya laughs, delighted in her teasing, and Bran smiles widely as well.

In the corner of the tent, Jon is shaking his head at them all, mortified.

Bran and Arya finally leave, and Sansa immediately lets the tent flap fall closed again.

Outside, she hears Arya says to Bran, “But seriously Bran, if you don’t tell me right this fucking second how Lomas is, I’m going to put pig shit in your pillow tonight.”

Sansa grimaces, then moves away, readily distancing herself from whatever is going to happen between those two. Gods, she doesn’t even want to _know_ how they’ll resolve that one.

Jon is frowning as well, obviously as uncomfortable as she is.

Sansa walks over to him, draping her arms around his shoulders. He easily settles his hands against her waist, his uneasy expression quickly replaced with that fond look that she _adores._

“So,” Sansa says, smiling up at him, “our children better not behave as badly as them, otherwise I don’t think I’ll last.”

Jon gives her a quick kiss, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth as well. “My sour Northern disposition will definitely be passed on to them. Otherwise, you were a very well behaved child, they’ve got a good role model.”

Sansa raises her brow at him as her fingers idly play with the loose hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yes, but Arya and Bran will be there to corrupt them.”

Jon frowns, smile dropping from his face. “You’re right,” he says seriously, “we’ll have to limit their exposure.”

Sansa laughs, and kisses him again.

“I love you,” she against his mouth.

He sighs slightly, and Sansa swallows the contented noise as Jon pulls her body tighter against his.

“I love you, too.”

 

Jon

The ship rocks steadily underneath their feet as the anchor is thrown overboard.

Beside him, Sansa and Arya look out over Dragonstone with solemn looks upon their faces.

“I thought it’d be bigger,” Arya says, trying to ease the tension.

It falls flat, because both he and Sansa know just how tense she is over this confrontation.

Sansa turns away from them both, making her way over to Yara.

Jon can’t hear their conversation, and so turns back to Arya. His sister steps closer to him, a troubled expression on her face.

“How are you feeling about being back here?” she asks quietly.

Jon grunts. “I could have done with never seeing this fucking island again.”

Arya looks up at him, but he keeps his eyes on his family’s seat of power, face set into a scowl.

While he’d been locked up, he and Arya had talked a bit about his time here, both the first and second time, so she knows just how reluctant he is to return. He, in turn, knows Arya’s tumultuous feelings about seeing Cersei again.

“It will be over soon,” Arya says, though she doesn’t sound confident, more resigned.

“Aye,” he replies, “and then I’m never leaving the North again.”

Arya’s face does something odd, something like looks both like longing and disgust.

Jon turns to her, looking away from the island to focus on his sister. “And you? Are you going back North?”

Uncertainty replaces the odd look, and her brows pull down into a frown. “I . . . don’t know. I think so. For now, at least.”

Jon doesn’t push her, because he knows if he does he’ll drive her away; and while he wants her to return to Winterfell with them, he can understand if she doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be stuck in the North forever.

He just doesn’t want her to be alone anymore.

Sansa returns, Yara by her side, as those around the desk start to lower a rowboat down to the water.

“A guard will take us to shore,” Sansa informs them. “Yara is coming as well, and Brienne, Davos and Clegane.”

Jon throws an apprehensive look over to the Hound, who is standing to the side and staring at Dragonstone with a blank expression. He’d made his way to the Northern camp outside King’s Landing’s walls after the city had been sacked, and, with nowhere to go, had taken a tent for himself and been there for weeks. Arya had come back one day this week, face pale, and said that she’d seen Clegane, even though she’d thought him dead. When he’d learnt they were travelling to Dragonstone to confront Cersei, he’d demanded a place, and Sansa had acquiesced only when Clegane had made the point that no one else stood a chance of defeating his brother. When Jon thinks about meeting the Mountain back at the Dragonpit meeting, he’s fairly inclined to agree.

Still. Jon wishes the man weren’t here.

Jon looks back to Sansa and nods, tightening the fastenings on his gloves. Arya shifts on her feet, fingering Needle’s hilt.

Yara looks at the three of them, at their anxious faces, her eyes sharp and way too smart. “You all need to get yourselves together,” she snaps at them. “Or you’ll get all of us killed.”

“Leave this to us,” Sansa replies firmly. “You’ll get your chance at Euron, but until then you need to be quiet.”

Yara turns an appreciative yet incredulous look at Sansa, brows high on her face as she looks Sansa up and down. Jon feels vaguely uncomfortable with Yara’s assessment, though he’s not sure why.

“Alright, Your Grace,” Yara says sarcastically, raising her hand to gesture to the ladder being thrown overboard, “lead the way.”

As the rowboat gets closer to shore, Jon can make out several guards standing on the beach.

“We can take them,” Yara says confidently.

“There are likely five hundred men here, if more haven’t been brought since I last spoke with ser Jaime,” Sansa says, turning to the other woman. “You think the four of you can beat them all?”

Yara raises an angry brow at Sansa. “Five hundred?” she demands. “How do you plan to make it past them, then?”

“We’ll be taken prisoner, likely,” Sansa informs Yara. “But as long as you keep your mouth shut, as agreed, everything will be fine.”

Yara seems only slightly convinced, but convinced enough that she doesn’t say anything more.

Jon purses his lips, shoulders hunching. He doesn’t want to be taken prisoner, especially not on Dragonstone. He turns his head, wondering if he can go back to the ship.

Beside him, Sansa discreetly reaches around their cloaks to squeeze his thigh. He relaxes, but only slightly, still unnervingly stressed about the idea.

When the boat beaches, the Golden Company guards immediately pull the bow of it, dragging it completely from the water. All their weapons are taken from them, rather forcefully in Jon’s opinion, and even though Jon expected it, anxiety still churns in his gut.

 _It will be fine,_ he reminds himself. _Sansa has a plan._

The guards pin his arms behind his back, and Jon can’t help but tug against them violently.

“Ooh, got ourselves a fighter, huh?” the guard behind him mutters, grabbing Jon’s chin roughly.

Jon grunts and rears away from the guard’s hands.

“Get off him,” Arya hisses, tugging at her own restraints.

“I thought you said we weren’t supposed to fight them,” Yara mutters.

“We’re not,” Sansa answers, voice loud and calm. “Jon, look at me.”

Gut still churning heavily, Jon reluctantly lifts his eyes to Sansa’s.

“It’s okay,” she reassures. “We’re okay.”

Jon clenches his jaw, tugging his arms once more, but trying to fight his growing panic.

“It doesn’t look like you’re okay,” one of the guards sneers, hand resting threateningly on his sword.

“On the contrary,” another says, grinning widely as he eyes Sansa up and down. Jon tugs again, not in panic this time, but in anger. “This one looks pretty fine to me.”

A fourth guard reaches towards Sansa, and Jon shouts, “Hey, don’t _fucking_ touch her,” as Arya tugs again and Brienne almost breaks free.

But Sansa has it handled. “If you put your hand on me, I’ll have your head for it.”

The guard hesitates, but another says, “It seems to me like you can’t do anything while you’re chained up.”

Sansa just raises her brow at them. “I assure you, I’m not as helpless as I seem. I’m Sansa Stark.”

It’s like she’s pulled a weapon against them. They all instantly tense up, backing away from her.

“Fuck,” one of the mutters under his breath.

The grip on Jon’s hands loosen, and he pulls free, immediately going to Sansa’s side.

“I’m alright,” she reassures him. “You okay?”

Jon rolls his shoulders, and looks around at the weary guards. “I have to let them tie me up, don’t I?”

She nods, guilt crossing her face. “Just for now,” she agrees quietly.

Jon tries to control his grimace, but he doesn’t quite manage it.

He looks over Sansa once more, then turns away, holding his wrists out to the guard that took him before.

The man hesitantly binds Jon’s hands together with rope, and then, with a command from Sansa to take them to Cersei, the group makes their way up the long walk to the Dragonstone Keep.

Jon can’t help but glance up to the sky several times, expecting Drogon or Rhaegal to swoop overhead.

Sansa and Arya keep sending him furtive glances, so Jon knows he’s not keeping it together half as well as he thinks he is. At one point, Jon catches Davos glancing towards the sky as well, so he immediately feels a bit better. At least he’s not the only one struggling to be here again.

Jon takes a deep breath as their group is led through the halls and towards the Throne Room. Jon has barely a moment outside the doors to wonder if it will look the same, and then the doors swing open.

For a second, Jon _swears_ he can see Daenerys sitting on the dragonglass Throne. But he blinks and she’s gone, replaced by another blonde Queen.

Cersei eyes them all coldly as they walk in, and Jon feels a chill down his spine as her gaze settles on Sansa. At the front of the room, before the dais, Jaime Lannister is kneeling in chains, hair long and matted and dressed in rags.

Having been in such a state himself only a week ago, Jon understands the haunted look the man gives them as they approach. Brienne rattles her restraints, eyes locked upon Jaime, but she doesn’t break free, even though Jon thinks she likely could.

To the side of Cersei’s Throne stands Euron Greyjoy, and another man in golden armour that Jon doesn’t recognize. Likely the captain of the Golden Company. To Cersei’s other side stands the Mountain, and Jon reluctantly admits to himself that he’s glad the other Clegane is here to take care of him. Qyburn stands next to him, as stoic as he had been the first time Jon saw him.

Cersei doesn’t stand as they stop before her, instead taking them all in slowly. Jon had never understood Sansa’s obsession with the south, not truly, and once upon a time he’d waywardly accused her of admiring Cersei, when he’d felt the pressure to save them all build up and up and Sansa had asked him to focus on more than one thing. Now, however, as he watches the woman take them all in, he understands in a rush the fear that drove Sansa.

Cersei’s gaze is too wise, too keen, and Jon feels like they’re all being picked apart one after the other, until there’s nothing left of them that Cersei doesn’t know.

It is Euron Greyjoy who breaks the silence, swaggering over the dais to step down towards them.

“Little Yara!” he crows. “Back for more, eh? Where’s your cockless brother?”

Yara takes a step forward, meeting the grinning Euron toe to toe, and then spits in his face. His delighted expression is quickly replaced by a murderous one, and he clasps her hand around her throat.

“Might want to rethink your attitude, you little cunt,” he says, baring his teeth. “I have you in chains again, and I don’t plan to be so merciful this time.”

Yara struggles against him and her chains, kicking her legs out at Euron’s shins as her face goes red, and just as Jon decides he needs to do something, Cersei snaps, “Euron, for gods sake, have some class.”

Euron glances over his shoulder at Cersei, who is looking down at him impatiently, then releases Yara.

He glares at his niece, then turns and makes his way back up to Cersei’s side.

Cersei stands, and for the first time Jon see’s just how heavily pregnant she is. Jon knows very little about pregnancy, but even he can see that there surely can’t be long before she has the child, perhaps only a few weeks.

Hand rubbing over her belly, Cersei locks eyes with Sansa.

“Well, well, little dove,” she says, an almost pleasant smile crossing her face. “You’ve finally made your way back to me.”

Sansa doesn’t respond, her impassive mask firmly in place, and it prompts Cersei to descend the stairs.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” Cersei asks. “It’s Jaime’s of course –“

Behind her, Euron splutters and steps forward, shouting, “What the fuck?” but Cersei’s guards take him by the arms before he can get anywhere near her.

“ – oh, Lady Brienne, hello,” Cersei says, not even acknowledging what just happened with Euron. “You’re looking . . . well, you’ve always been an ugly thing, haven’t you?”

Brienne doesn’t rise to the bait, keeping her chin lifted high, but Jon narrows his eyes, while Arya shouts an indignant, “Hey!”

Cersei’s attention turns to his sister. “Little Ayra Stark,” Cersei says. “The one who got away. What did happen to you? We searched for you, of course, but you proved to be difficult to find. I thought you dead, truthfully.”

“We Starks are hard to kill,” Arya scowls.

Cersei hums. “That’s not what your father said, but I’ll keep that in mind if I meet any future Stark’s.” Jon feels his anger swell at her mention of their father, but he knows that that what’s she wanted, so he tries to keep himself together. Her gaze drifts around them all, settling on Jon for only a second, then moving on. “But it seems to me like all the Stark’s are here. I bet that seems rather silly now, doesn’t it?”

Jon, and it seems the group, take their cues from Sansa and say nothing.

Cersei sighs, disappointed they’re not playing the game, but she distracts herself easily enough.

She stands in front of Sansa, eyes analyzing her face. There’s something almost . . . soft about her gaze, something motherly, but there’s a hardness there, too, a bitterness and anger that’s bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Why did you come, Sansa?” Cersei demands, voice loosing the playful edge. “You murdered my _son._ You must know I’ll have you executed before the sun is down.”

“You know I had no part in that,” Sansa replies coolly. “That was Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish. It may please you to know that I had Littlefinger executed. Justice has been served; though, did they really make a mistake? Joffery deserved a worse fate than he got.”

The backhanded slap Cersei gives Sansa rings throughout the room, and it’s hard enough that Sansa’s head swings to the side, her breath expelled in a sharp gasp.

“Don’t you _touch_ her!” Jon growls, pulling his arms hard enough that the guard restraining him stumbles.

Arya and Brienne shout as well, looking about ready to fight everyone in the room, even without their weapons, but it is to Jon that Cersei’s gaze is drawn.

Sansa breathes heavily, head still turned to the side, and Jon is still tugging his arms, desperate to go over to her.

“Jon,” Sansa calls, voice wavering only slightly as she lifts her head. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t quite stop struggling, though Brienne does, and Arya looks like she’s trying to stop herself from murdering Cersei right then and there.

The side of Sansa’s face is already bright red, and Jon can see now that Cersei’s ring has split Sansa’s cheek slightly.

The sight of it makes Jon see red, and suddenly he’s free and beside Sansa, thumb smoothing over the cut.

Alarm fills Sansa’s face, and she shakes her head at him. “Jon,” she whispers warningly. “Please. I’m fine, I promise.”

He’s restrained again quickly enough, worried eyes on Sansa, but she shakes her head again and he closes his eyes, trying to reign in his fury.

This is the same fury he felt when he had Ramsey Bolton beneath his fists, when Daenerys threatened Sansa and made him promise to marry her in the same breath, when the Dragon Queen burnt the city and condemned Rhaegal to death, when the Night King stood at Winterfell’s door and demanded death. It’s blood boiling fury. It’s Targaryen fury. It’s the fury that resulted in his House words.

_Fire and blood._

When he looks upon Cersei, he is struck with an intimate understanding of his House’s kind of destruction; he wants to rain it down upon her.

Cersei, however, doesn’t look intimidated, even though she’d taken several steps back when he’d freed himself. Instead, her head is cocked as she stares at he and Sansa.

“Sansa,” Cersei says, and she sounds almost impressed. “I’m surprised that this particular lesson is something you’ve taken to heart.”

Cersei glances back at Jaime, then sighs, rubbing her belly. “He’ll only disappoint you,” she says, turning back to them. “Brothers are a temperamental bunch.”

Sansa licks her lips, while Jon glares at Cersei.

“Truly, though, I would have thought brother-fucking beneath the honourable Starks. How delightful to be proven wrong.”

“My brother?” Sansa asks innocently, tilting her head.

“Oh, I know you two weren’t very close growing up, but surely the semantics of brother or half brother will matter little in the eyes of the small folk or the gods.”

Jon can’t help but be enraged and offended; he’s not offended on his behalf, the slander mattering little to him because she’s wrong, but he’s offended on Sansa’s. That anyone would think less of her because of Cersei’s lies makes Jon feel a little unhinged. He tries to step towards Cersei, aware that he’s yet again risen to her bait, but he _just can’t help it._

Cersei’s eyes him, a cruel smirk on her face. “I thought it was Arya you were always closest with,” she goads. “It would have made more sense if she was the sister who tumbled into your bed. Or maybe that makes it easier for you to fuck her? The fact that you Sansa were never close?”

Jon can feel his hands shaking in his rage. He didn’t think he could ever want to kill someone as much as he wanted to kill Daenerys the day she burnt King’s Landing, and Jon’s almost surprised that this is a close second. He would be surprised, if he could feel anything other than anger.

“I’m going to kill you,” he whispers to Cersei, and he can feel the truth in his words. Cersei must be able to as well, because her expression shutters for a second, but she quickly puts herself back together.

She steps closer to Jon, face almost pressed against his, and whispers, “Or maybe you have them both at the same time, bastard? Both your sisters in your bed, is that what you like?”

He’s going to wrap his hands around his throat, like he did with Daenerys. Except this time, he’ll be successful, he swears to the old gods and the new –

“Your taunts are outdated,” Sansa calls, drawing Cersei’s attention. Jon takes a deep breath as Cersei’s knowing gaze is pulled from him, trying to calm himself down. “They bely just how uninformed you are, Cersei.”

“Your Grace,” Cersei corrects, moving to stand before Sansa. “You think you know more than me? You think you’re informed?”

Cersei gestures behind her, and Jaime is pulled to his feet. His face is gaunt and dirt streaked, eyes sad as they fall upon the group.

“I know you sent Jaime as your spy,” Cersei spits. “I know that’s why you’re here. I know Jaime fucked your sworn shield before he left, I know you’re housing a Baratheon bastard at your little camp, I knew you would kill Daenerys and I know the other Houses are planning to pledge to you. I know I’m going to kill you before they can and remain Queen of the Seven Kingdom’s.”

Sansa shakes her head slightly, a small smile on her lips. It’s a terrifying look, especially with her red and welted face, and Jon hopes he never has to see it again. “You know many things, Cersei, it’s true. Even I didn’t know that Daenerys would burn the Keep. My lack of imagination had me at a loss there. But you knew. How?”

Cersei shrugs, an almost pleased expression on her face. “She thought I was inside. Why wouldn’t she burn it?”

“You met her only once, and you knew she lusted after that destruction.”

Cersei shrugs again. “She’s a Targaryen, darling Sansa, of course she did. And after Jaime met her on the battlefield – well, I knew I couldn’t overcome her alone. You took care of it all for me.”

“She wasn’t mad, though,” Sansa presses. “You must have known she wasn’t.”

“She wasn’t,” Cersei concedes. “No, on the contrary, she was almost the sanest person I’ve ever met. She had dragons, and something to prove. It would have made _less_ sense if she’d remained in Essos all her life. Of course, had I known that she would have had such a prerogative as being a spurned lover – Jon Snow, pretending to be her lover? A stroke of brilliance, I must admit – then perhaps I would have anticipated a bit more destruction. Maybe, with a little stoking, I could have had her burn down the whole city. Wouldn’t that have been something?”

“I have just the secret that you should have known,” Sansa divulges, as if sharing some gossip. Jon’s never heard that tone from her, and it almost makes him shudder. “Learning it almost had her angry enough to burn Winterfell.”

Cersei’s mouth parts slightly as she looks upon Sansa in frustration. “Well?” she demands. “What is it?”

“The truth about Jon, of course,” Sansa says easily.

“The . . . truth about Jon?”

“Oh? You didn’t know that one?”

Sansa turns to him, smiling slightly. Cersei does as well, a much more murderous expression twisting her features.

For the first time, Jon feels no hesitation in spilling the truth. It’s almost satisfying, especially after it had taken so little for her to move him to fury. “I’m the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

Cersei looks completely taken aback for a long moment. “You’re lying,” she says finally. “Ned Stark could never have –“

“But he did,” Jon interjects confidently. He may not be able to take Cersei’s head right now, but this is almost as good. “He lied to the entire realm for twenty years, keeping me safe from people like you. My claim supersedes yours –“

“No, it doesn’t,” Cersei says, almost panicked. “Robert overthrew the Targaryen’s –“

“And now the Stark’s are going to overthrow you,” Arya cuts in. “Winter has come, _Your Grace.”_

“Guards!” Cersei calls out, and this time Jon knows she feels threatened. “Kill them all –“

Sansa turns her head over her shoulder, smiling at the man who holds her. “You can let me go now, actually.”

The guard immediately lets go of Sansa, and the others follow suit, but the Mountain knows no such compunction and pulls out his giant broadsword.

Sandor Clegane grabs his confiscated sword from a guard, discarding its sheath as he says, “This has been along time coming, brother.”

The brother’s swords meet, ringing loudly through the room. Jon collects his sword as well, and so do Brienne and Arya, but they leave the fight to the brothers. Jon only plans to engage with the Mountain if Clegane loses; otherwise, he’ll leave this battle to them.

Over the sound of the fighting, Cersei shouts, “Captain Strickland! Your men are disobeying me –“

The man in golden armour steps forward, a pleased look on his face.

“You’re no longer in command of us,” Captain Strickland says, satisfaction lining his voice.

“I _paid_ –“

“We work for the highest bidder,” Strickland interrupts. “And that was Lady Stark. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Lannister, but it certainly hasn’t.”

“You didn’t know that one either?” Sansa snarks, stepping towards the would-be Queen.

Cersei’s face has paled considerably, and her arms tighten around her stomach. Perhaps Jon should feel bad for her, perhaps the beginnings of her tears should be difficult to look at, but he doesn’t, and it isn’t. In fact, with a quick glance at Sansa’s red cheek, he feels a sick sense of satisfaction.

Cersei stumbles back, turning on her heel to scurry behind the still-fighting Clegane’s. She can’t get out, not really, not with so many Golden Company men in here, but she still shouts at the Mountain to take her from the room.

The Mountain ignores her, swinging his sword towards Clegane. The Hound parries, but only just, and soon enough the gruesome undead brother has the younger disarmed.

Qyburn takes the opportunity to scurry closer the his creation, commanding in a stern voice, “Protect your _Queen_ ,” but he gets too close and is obviously giving a command the Mountain doesn’t want to listen to, because the huge man closes his fist around Qyburn’s face and then shoves, _hard._

Qyburn’s head slams into the ground, the back of his skull exploding in a shattered mess. Cersei screams in shock, and so does Sansa, who is standing slightly in front of Jon.

Jon grabs Sansa’s wrist and pulls her back and away, shielding her body from both the fight and the sight.

Over his shoulder, Jon sees Arya grabbing a large sword from a guard standing beside her. She shouts Clegane’s name and chucks it through the air towards the man.

Keeping Sansa firmly behind him, Jon turns back around to the fight, loathe to have his back to it.

The Hound gets the sword just in time to parry another blow, and Jon gets the distinct feeling the man can’t possibly win.

The Mountain is an abomination, a disgusting, rotting thing, but he’s not a man any longer, and when Clegane finally manages to push his sword through his brother’s chest, the Mountain looks down at the protruding thing like it’s only a minor inconvenience.

Jon glances down at Longclaw, and wonders if the Mountain is like the Walker’s and wights. Will Valyrian steel work where normal steel wouldn’t?

Only one way to find out.

Jon steps forward from the group, pulling Longclaw from its sheath. He catches Arya’s eye; she nods, then pulls her own Valyrian dagger from its sheath as well.

“Davos,” Jon says quietly, “get a torch.”

The older man, not a fighter himself, only purses his lips and nods, and, for protection, he grabs a Golden Company man by the arm and drags him from the room.

Jon catches Brienne’s eye and tilts his head towards Sansa. The sworn shield nods discreetly, then comes to stand beside Sansa and says gently, “Come back, my lady.”

Sansa’s hands close over Jon’s shoulders, and he turns his head to look back at her.

“Wait, Jon, what are you –“

“Back in a moment,” he says reassuringly, trying to smile, and then turns from her before she can convince him that this is a terrible idea.

Not that he needs convincing. He knows this is a terrible idea.

The Hound has pulled his sword from his brother’s chest, but he’s panting and visibly exhausted from this elongated fight; his undead companion, however, is still going strong.

Arya feints to the left, crouching low and slinking into the shadows.

Jon provides the distraction. He enters the fight easily, swinging Longclaw and dragging a cut across the Mountain’s stomach. He doesn’t explode like the wights, like Jon naively hoped, but he does stumble as black blood starts to ooze.

“This is my fight, pretty boy,” the Hound grunts, taking the Mountain’s distraction as an opportunity for a moment of rest.

“You were about to lose,” Jon retorts.

“Save your heroics for after I’m dead, then. “

Jon grunts in frustration, swinging Longclaw again, which is easily parried by his opponent.

“I’m not watching another person die like that,” Jon says, jerking his chin towards the mess of Qyburn’s body.

The Mountain may be strong, but he’s massive, and Jon’s smaller height allows him to move much faster. He executes a quick series of strikes, each of which the Mountain defends against, but each time he does he’s slightly slower to meet Jon’s sword. Finally, Jon see’s an opening, and he thrusts Longclaw through the Mountain’s chest, much like Clegane had.

The Mountain properly stumbles this time, one hand slowly coming up to touch the wound.

Behind the Mountain’s giant silhouette, Jon see’s Arya leap through the air. She pounces onto his back, and drives her dagger through his eye.

The Mountain drops to one knee, a gurgled grunt ripping from his throat.

Jon pants heavily, wondering if it’s over.

“I don’t know why that was so hard for you both,” Arya says to he and Clegane, still clinging to the Mountain’s back. “The Princess That Was –“

The Mountain reaches up and flips Arya over his head, slamming her back against the floor. He’s not as strong as he was a few minutes ago, and not as high into the air, but for a second horror fills Jon and he thinks he’s about to watch his sister die in the same gruesome way as Qyburn.

Her head hits the ground as her back does, and her breath is expelled from her lungs in a violent whoosh. Jon rushes to her side and shakes her shoulders, terrified she’s dead.

But Arya only groans, lips forming, “ _Fuck!”_ even though she can’t speak because of the breathlessness. Jon scoops her up into his arms, getting her away from the fighting.

Behind him, Jon hears the squelch of a sword being pulled from a body, and then he hears Clegane say, “See you in hell, brother.”

The thunk of a head hitting the ground echoes in the room, and Jon catches Davos’ eye, who has returned with torch in hand. Davos nods and passes by Jon, and then Jon hears the whoosh of fire catching alight.

“Looks like you got a bit cocky there,” Jon teases Arya as he sets her down on the ground. Sansa kneels beside them both, face scrunched up in worry.

Arya groans, rubbing the back of her head, eyes squeezed shut.

“I defeated the Night King,” she grumbles through gasping breaths. “Of course I’m cocky.”

Sansa shakes her head in exasperation while Jon purses his lips. He ruffles Arya’s hair, because he can’t himself and apparently he’s acting like father now, and Arya pushes his hand away.

Jon stands, then takes Sansa’s hand to help her stand as well.

When they turn back around, the Mountain’s body is set on fire, while Clegane holds both his and Arya’s weapons.

Jon scans the room, trying to find Cersei. She stands where she was before, though this time her mouth is parted in shock.

Jon squeezes Sansa’s hand, then goes to advance towards Cersei.

He gets only a few feet towards her when she seems to realize he’s coming to get her, and it breaks her trance.

“Jaime!” Cersei calls, stumbling towards her brother. “Please, Jaime, our child –“

Jaime catches Cersei easily, hand resting on her stomach. For a moment, Jon wonders where his allegiances lie, but Sansa doesn’t look concerned.

“I’ll keep our child safe,” Jaime vows, face solemn as he looks down at his twin. “But that protection no longer extends to you.”

With nowhere to go, Cersei turns on her foot, looking around the room.

“I’ll pay anyone in this room with more gold and castles than they could ever dream to make if they get me out of here alive.”

The men glance at each other, but not a single one steps forward. Not even Euron tries to break from his chains to help her.

Sansa approaches Cersei slowly, her spine straight and shoulders back.

Cersei laughs bitterly, arms curling around her stomach. “So this is it, little dove,” Cersei murmurs. “This is how you finally win. You turn everyone against me, even my own twin.”

“No,” Sansa responds, finality to her tone. “No. You did that yourself.”

It is Yara, of course, who breaks the tense atmosphere.

She grabs the hilt of the sword of the man who had been restraining her earlier, the ring of it sliding out of the sheath echoing in the cavernous room as she says, “Oh, I’m going to fucking enjoy this.”

With determined eyes she turns towards the dais.

Euron immediately starts to beg for his life, but he gets only half way through the plead of, “Yara, no need to kill me now, we can talk –“

His voice is cut off with a gasp as Yara thrusts the sword into his chest.

“You deserved a worse death than this,” she tells him, planting her boot on his chest and pulling the sword from his heart.

He lasts no longer than a few seconds, and then he dies, unceremoniously, as Yara spits on his face again.

“Fucking cunt,” she mutters, then chucks the sword to the ground. “Let’s get the fuck outta here, eh?”

Sansa approaches Cersei, who is standing in the centre of the room, staring at Euron’s body in horror. Not at his death, Jon is sure, but at the prospect of dying in such a way herself.

Sansa is kinder than Jon is. She won’t let Cersei die like that, no matter what the Queen has done. She didn’t even want Daenerys to die the way she had; Sansa had planned to hold a formal trial with the major Houses of Westeros there as jury to condemn her. Sansa is planning to do the same for Cersei now.

“Is that how I’m to die?” Cersei asks, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re to kill me now? My child, _please,_ my baby –“

Sansa shakes her head quickly. “No. No, unlike you, your child has done nothing other than be borne to you. We’re taking you back to King’s Landing, where you’ll be kept until you deliver your child. Then you’ll be set a trial, and your child will be raised by it’s father, and you’ll never see either of them again.”

Sansa turns from Cersei, the woman caught between shuddering in anxiety and clenching her jaw in anger, and Jon follows Sansa from the room, waving away both Brienne and Arya, who go to follow them as well.

Jon slips through the door just as it closes shut, and to the side of the entry way Sansa’s hand is braced against the wall as she leans over to retch.

Jon rushes to her side, pulling her hair over her shoulders and away from her face as Sansa heaves again.

“Go, Jon,” Sansa gasps, hand clutching the base of her throat, “you don’t – go back inside.”

Jon ignores her, rubbing large circle onto her back.

A sob catches in Sansa’s throat as she gags again, and Jon is instantly struck with the worry that she’s not breathing right.

Forcing down his own panic at the thought, Jon says, “Hey, Sansa, listen to me. Breathe in with me, one, two, three, four.”

As it had worked when Sansa used it for him, Jon’s gentle tone and repetitive words manage to coax Sansa into listening and following the rhythm he sets. Tears still streak down her face, and Jon’s heart breaks a little at the sight. The side of her face Cersei had backhanded is still bright red, and the skin around the cut on her cheekbone is noticeably swollen.

When her breathing evens, Jon gently turns her shoulders so he can gather her in his arms, resting his face against her shoulder, the opposite side to her swollen cheek.

“You did so good,” Jon murmurs to her as her body shudders with sobs. Her breathing is even enough, and he’s not worried that she’s hyperventilating, but she’s still crying, still sobbing.

“I can’t – I don’t want to do this anymore,” Sansa cries, fingers clutching desperately at the fur of his cloak. “Jaime – because of me – and her _face,_ she just wants to protect her child, Jon – I thought that I’d want to see her die for what she’s done but - don’t make me kill her, _please_ , I can’t, I _can’t_ -”

Jon about bursts into tears himself, and the only reason he doesn’t is because he knows if he does Sansa will want to comfort _him,_ and he can’t have that. This is about her.

“No, Sansa, no,” Jon says, pulling back to cup one side of her face. His eyes sweep over the other side, the red side, and he wonders how she can have such empathy in her heart. He certainly doesn’t, not anymore. Death weighs heavily on him, as it always had, and duty certainly makes his soul weary. But Sansa had confessed to him that she’d cried when she’d sentenced Littlefinger and watched him bleed out on the stone floors, and he’d seen the way she’d gone completely numb to almost everything when she’d watched Daenerys die in front of them. Jon is just tired, just exhausted, just so completely over what life has thrust upon them. But Sansa is so personally affected by each and every act she’s forced to make.

“Sansa, my love, listen to me,” he says, tilting her chin so she’s forced to look into his eyes. “We are not like them. We’re _not_ going to just kill her, you know we’re not. That’s why we did all this, why you sent Jaime south, why you bought the Golden Company; so that we can do this properly. So that we can give her trial, and have her sentenced by a jury.”

Sansa buries her face in his neck, crying still, and Jon sighs, heart clenching heavily in his chest. He pulls her waist, pressing her body up against his, trying to give her as much comfort as he’s able. But he knows there’s not much he can do aside from be there for her. This is something she has to understand herself.

“We have so little enemies now,” Sansa whispers to him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, then presses a kiss to her temple.

“The lone wolf dies,” he murmurs against her skin, “but the pack survives.”


	9. The Iron Throne Pt III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i have extended the chapter count AGAIN but this will be the last time i promise!! ha, remember back at the beginning when i was a cocky bitch and thought i could tell the entire story in 30k? and now ONE SINGLE EPISODE will end up amounting to more than that? yeah, me too. what a naive summer child i was 
> 
> a MASSIVE thank you to @zarahjoyce and @asongforjonsa for helping me with the first part of this chapter! i was unusually unsure about the direction i chose, and they both encouraged and helped me HUGELY. 
> 
> but on that note, thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story for so long. you've all been so kind and encouraging, and i couldn't have asked for more for my first time writing such a huge piece of work. 
> 
> without giving too much away - i've tried really hard to make some sense of the remaining Houses, using both what the show gave us and also incorporating some characters from the books that weren't ever introduced. still, i warn you to suspend your belief just a tiny bit?
> 
> thanks my loves, i hope you enjoy

Cersei

Cersei only regrets that it’s come to this.

She wouldn’t do the same things over if she had the chance. If she had the chance, maybe she would run away as a young girl. She would avoid all the heartbreak over Rhaegar, over having to marry Robert and endure his love for another woman. Maybe she would be able to convince Jaime to join her, so that she could still be gifted the only thing that’s ever meant something to her: her children.

But they’ve not just meant something, they’ve meant _everything._

She may have been Queen of the Seven Kingdoms until today, but Cersei has always felt like the only thing she’s ever had are her children.

The power the Queenship earned her was only ever a _fuck you_ to all those who used her, underestimated her, had sought to take her name and body and mind. She’s never cared about it, not truly. What she cares about is keeping herself and her child safe from anyone and everyone, and being Queen had always seemed like the most obvious way to exert that control.

But she’s gotten it confused somewhere along the way, and now the only thing she’d ever truly wanted is being taken from her and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Unlike what some believe, she isn’t mad, and she isn’t evil. But she is ruthless, and she can be vindictive, and she not only knows this but embraces it. It allows her the imagination that had kept her safe for this long. She wonders now, as a storm starts to roll in over Dragonstone, whether what’s she done had been the best course. Could she have done it differently? Could she have maneuvered things so that revenge wouldn’t now be being sought?

Perhaps. There are other things, though, things for which she knows justice will be demanded but that which she would always do again; things like what she did to Ellaria Sand, who took her beautiful daughter from her.

No, Cersei only regrets what she’s done because now she can’t keep her child safe and in her arms forever. Sitting here in a dark room doesn’t change that, no matter what Sansa Stark thinks.

The split skin Cersei had inflicted upon the girl that day is the least of what Cersei would do if she ever got her hands on Sansa again. To send Jaime as a spy? To buy the Golden Company right under her nose? Cersei would wield the dagger and cut Sansa’s throat herself if she could.

She might make Eddard’s bastard watch. Or no, not Eddard’s bastard. Not a bastard at all, but a Targaryen prince. Cersei isn’t sure how that piece of information had been denied to her for so many years, but to learn today that Eddard had lied for years upon years, let the entire realm think he dishonored his wife just to keep his sister’s child safe from Robert’s bloodlust - . . . Cersei doesn’t know if she admires his tenacity or feels furious she was tricked for so long.

To leave her child in their hands scathes more than any trial and execution ever could.

The idea of it makes an acrid mixture of anger and fear and panic roil her gut, and Cersei can’t help but imagine what the future holds; all trace of the child’s true mother and siblings forgotten as they’re raised up in the dreary North, with the bastard and whore raising _her_ child as their ward, or perhaps even adopted child. Or maybe Jaime will be able to raise the child, and _Brienne_ will pose as their real mother. Cersei struggles to think of something worse, her child being raised by her enemies.

The image sends a pang through her stomach, and Cersei rubs her belly thoughtlessly, staring up at the ceiling.

Dinner will be brought in soon.

She’d underestimated Sansa today, but she won’t make the same mistake again. She won’t eat or drink a single morsel of the food they send in here, for fear of poisoning, and they can’t make her.

Maybe that’s a better way to die. Would she rather her child die unborn, safe from the fate that surely awaits them, no matter what the _honorable_ Starks say? She’d thought that, once, when she’d almost fed her baby Tommen sweetsleep during the Battle of the Blackwater. But now?

This child might be the only thing left of the Lannisters. Would she rather their House die out forever, have it end with her? Or would she rather have her child ripped from her arms, never to be seen again?

Either way, Cersei isn’t sure this outcome could have been worse for her. A fair trial? She couldn’t care less whether the trial is fair, whether it ends in her death or banishment or imprisonment. Let the Lord’s and Ladies of Westeros think they’ve delivered justice, or sought their revenge.

Sansa Stark has already passed judgment on the thing Cersei cares most about.

Perhaps she _will_ starve herself, then.

Another pang shoots through her stomach, and Cersei’s brow furrows into a frown. She’d thought the last a feeling of panic, of fear, but this felt too physical, too deep. She feels her muscles ache in her lower back, and suddenly the base of her stomach cramps so hard she gasps.

Oh gods _no._ No, not now, she needs more time, she needs time to think, to plan, to come up with an alternative to what she’s faced with, to what someone else has decided for her –

She gasps again, hands clenching over her large belly as she wills the pain to go away, as she desperately hopes that this will be it, that they’re just . . . just warning pains.

Nothing serious.

She’s had an emotional day, she’s been momentarily bested, and she needn’t worry –

This time, when the pain shoots through her, she knows that no amount of self-talk will change the truth.

She’s not even been given a mere day since her capture to spend with her babe before she delivers them into an unforgiving world.

 

Sansa

“How did you pay for it?”

Sansa eyes Cersei as the pregnant woman paces from one side of the room to the other.

“Pay for what?” Sansa asks, though she already knows what Cersei is asking.

Cersei throws a savage glare at Sansa, but her retort is cut off by a sharp gasp. Cersei presses a hand into the base of her stomach, her other hand resting against the wall to steady herself.

It seems sick, but Sansa is glad of the pain Cersei is enduring. If she weren’t in so much, then she might have flown at Sansa and wrapped her hands around her throat the first chance she got. Arya is here both to help, but also for Sansa’s peace of mind. She’s not yet convinced Cersei won’t still try and murder her.

“Lay down, for fucks sake,” Arya snaps, standing from where she sits beside Sansa.

“Have you bore three children already?” Cersei demands, not even looking up from where she stares at the wall. “No? Then I’ll ask you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Arya looks over to Sansa, who shrugs helplessly herself. She’s as unsure about what to do as Arya is. Jaime is waiting outside, beside himself with fear Sansa knows, and Brienne is out there with him. Jon is trying to find someone with any medical knowledge, or even just experience helping birth a child, but Sansa doesn’t have much hope. The only people on this godsforsaken island are the Golden Company, a few young maids, and the group of people Sansa brought with her.

Brienne has no experience, and neither does Yara. Yara had rolled her eyes when Sansa had told her that Cersei had gone in to labour, and told Sansa to let both the woman and the baby die, to which Sansa had sharply turned on her heel and resolved to take care of the situation herself.

Sansa very vaguely remembers her mother’s pregnancies after Sansa, especially of Rickon, but not as much of the birthing room as Sansa wishes she did now. She’s picked up her own information as she’s grown into a flowered woman of birthing age, and she knows parts of what delivering a babe is like, but most of what she knows is things to expect when _she’s_ the one bearing the child. She has very little idea on how to help, but she and Arya are all Cersei and her baby has.

“The Golden Company,” Cersei says finally, when she pushes herself from the wall to resume walking around. “How did you pay for them?”

Arya glances up to Sansa, obviously curious herself.

Sansa sighs from her stool, hands wringing in front of her. “The Iron Bank,” she responds. “I lent the money from the Iron Bank.”

Cersei scoffs, resting her hands on the small of her back and stretching her neck. “How do you expect to pay them back? I know how much I paid for those soldiers. It’s no small amount of gold.”

“I didn’t pay any more than you did,” Sansa admits, feeling inexplicably chastised. She _hates_ feeling like that, especially because it’s Cersei, and she feels like she has something to prove, even though that’s ridiculous. “They initially refused me, and I offered more and more gold, but they refused to put their men in danger by switching sides. And then you left nineteen thousand of them in King’s Landing, having placed the wildfire under the Keep without warning them, and you left. All those men died, because you’d left them there with a plan to destroy the city. They contacted _me,_ and asked me to guarantee the last thousand’s safety. One twentieth of the men, one twentieth of the gold.”

Cersei closes her eyes, face screwed up in what Sansa suspects is grief.

“The funny thing about that is –“ Cersei hisses sharply, interrupting herself again. She looks more uncomfortable this time, like she’s in more pain, but when Sansa hesitantly slides from her seat to offer help, Cersei glares over at her. Sansa stills herself, then sits back down. She doesn’t need be here at all, let alone offer any help. Cersei can do this all herself, for all Sansa cares. All Sansa wants is to keep the baby alive.

Cersei continues taking deep breaths through her nose. Sansa purses her lips, realizing that this contraction is lasting longer than the last. She suspects they don’t have long now.

“The funny thing about that _is,”_ Cersei repeats, trying to straighten her back again, “is that if Daenerys hadn’t burnt the Keep, nothing would have happened. You’re all so quick to blame me for the destruction of King’s Landing, but all I did was strategically place some wildfire and hope Daenerys was as angry as I thought she was.”

Sansa doesn’t say anything. She already knows that’s true. Unlike when Cersei had blown up the Sept, she hadn’t actually instigated the explosion this time. Sansa knows who’s responsible for what happened in King’s Landing, and justice has been given for that. But the fact still remains that Cersei’s play resulted in many more lives lost, and Sansa places no small amount of blame on Cersei’s shoulders for that.

“Daenerys has paid for what she did,” Sansa says finally.

“And so will you,” Arya swears, hands clenched tightly in her breeches.

Sansa glances down at her sister’s angry little form. Sansa’s worried about her. Arya had kept her mouth tightly shut about what she’d seen and experienced since she’d left Winterfell moons ago, but Jon had quietly told Sansa that Arya had been in the city when the siege was taking place. Jon had been hesitant to share too much more, expressing only his worry about Arya’s state of mind, and Sansa understood. She doesn’t know how to help Arya, not really.

“You might as well just cut me open now and pull my child from me,” Cersei says. Sansa isn’t sure if the comment is prompted by the pain she’s experiencing or her unwillingness to be put forth in a trial. “I’d rather die here.”

Perhaps a bit of both, then.

“So one twentieth of the gold,” Cersei murmurs. “That’s still a significant amount. The interest repayments will cripple you.”

Sansa grits her teeth. “I’m not your student, or you son’s betrothed, and you don’t need to worry about how I’ll pay them back.”

Cersei turns away from Sansa for a moment, taking a deep breath, and when she turns around, she says, softer than Sansa expected, “You remind me of Lyanna.”

Sansa isn’t sure whether that’s a compliment or insult, though with Cersei’s past with her aunt, Sansa thinks Cersei is probably just envious. Lyanna’s life and death only ever caused Cersei heartbreak and difficulties; Cersei probably thinks Lyanna took everything from her.

And now Sansa is doing the same.

Cersei’s mouth twists into a cruel smirk, and Sansa already knows what Cersei is going to say – something about Lyanna and Jon and Sansa’s relationship with whom everyone thought her half-brother.

So Sansa gets in first.

“I found the gold you brought from King’s Landing,” Sansa says. Cersei’s head snaps up towards her, eyes narrowing. “That’s how I’m going to pay back the Iron Bank.”

It’s also how she’s going to pay Yara for bringing them over, and how she’s going to pay for Winterfell to be rebuilt, _and_ how she plans to help the people of King’s Landing. She’d cried _again_ during the afternoon, when Jon had taken her hand and shown her to the room where Cersei had stashed the gold. It had lifted such a huge weight off her chest, a bigger one that she’d realized.

Cersei’s face goes almost completely blank, and her hands settle on her stomach again. Her eyes drift to the side, to the wall near the door, and she murmurs, “A younger and more beautiful Queen . . .”

Sansa’s mouth parts, and she glances over to Arya, who turns to Sansa with a raised brow. Before either sister can say anything, though, Cersei gasps again. Her knees buckle, and Arya and Sansa quickly slide from their seats to grip her elbows.

“Get off me,” Cersei says. She tugs her arms, but its weak, and she’s obviously in a lot of pain. She moans, eyes falling shut, and one of her hands wrap around Sansa’s wrist as she squeezes, trying to relieve her pain. “Something’s wrong.”

Sansa purses her lips, unsure how Cersei can tell, but Sansa’s never even been pregnant let alone birthed a babe, so she supposes she should take Cersei’s word for it.

“Get me – on the bed,” Cersei commands. Neither Sansa nor Arya move, both thrown off by Cersei asking for the their help, but Cersei snaps, “Get me on the bed!” and they both move.

Cersei struggles up on to the bed, sitting on the edge, arms coming up to cup her belly.

“Get this dress off me.”

Arya scowls at Cersei’s tone, but Sansa moves behind the bed, leaning over it to undo the laces of Cersei’s gown.

No one else is here, and none of them know what they’re doing. Sansa will take any instruction Cersei gives her.

With the laces undone, Sansa and Arya help Cersei out of her dress, and then she lies back on the pillows, slightly propped up. She brings her legs up, bending them at the knee, obviously trying to find a comfortable position.

She doesn’t manage, still groaning in pain, and Sansa looks over at a wide eyed Arya.

“Arya, the water should be heated by now, get someone to bring it in. And find out if those cloth’s have been cleaned, and bring them back now.”

Arya disappears out the door. Sansa catches a glimpse of Jaime’s worried face peering in, but Brienne gently pulls the door closed, shutting the world out.

“Tell me a story, little dove,” Cersei murmurs, her shoulders tense and her head shaking slightly as she tries to control herself. “Tell me how you fell in love with your brother.”

Sansa grits her teeth, and doesn’t respond. She’s not going to indulge Cersei, and she’s certainly not going to share anything with her. Sansa’s not told _anyone_ the proper story of how she fell in love with Jon, she’s hardly going to share the story with Cersei.

Cersei scoffs, hands clenching around the edge of the bed as her face screws up due to a particularly painful contraction. The room is filled with Cersei’s moans, the wind battering the castle outside.

Sansa’s been told it’s one of the worst storms in years.

It was why they hadn’t left Dragonstone this afternoon, after everything had happened with Cersei, because Yara had said a storm was coming in. The wind and rain had picked up over the course of the afternoon, and when Sansa and Jon had been roused from their bed by Arya in the middle of the night because Cersei had gone into labour, it had been to howling winds and thunder and lightening. It hasn’t eased up, not in the slightest. It’s likely gotten worse.

“Jaime and I . . . when I kissed him the first time, we were only seven. Did you know that?”

Sansa lifts her eyes from Cersei’s stomach to her face, to find Cersei staring back at her intently.

Sansa shakes her head.

“I didn’t know what would happen back then. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t have . . . We were never good for each other, and we always knew it. But a brother’s kiss - . . . it’s the sweetest thing in the world, don’t you think? How could I have given it up?”

Sansa stays silent, unsure what to say.

“When all of my babes were born with golden hair, I knew. I knew immediately. Robert tried to get a babe on me, rutting between my legs like an animal, but he never managed it. I blame the drink, but secretly I always felt like it was a gift. Jaime’s babes were more perfect than Robert’s would ever have been.”

Sansa thinks on Joffrey, a golden haired and blue eyed prince who had fooled her with his charming smile. Perfect in looks, perhaps, but even they couldn’t hide the poisonous person underneath.

Cersei reaches over to grip Sansa’s hand, and, with more strength than Sansa had anticipated, she tugs. Sansa stumbles over and Cersei pulls her down, so that they’re almost nose to nose.

Sansa’s breath catches as Cersei stares at her with her intense and dangerous eyes.

“This babe is about to be born, likely before your sister even returns,” Cersei says, lowly, her words rushed. “Something is wrong, I know it is. If you don’t save my child, I swear upon their life that I will stop at nothing to make you understand that physical pain is _nothing_ compared to losing a child.”

“Only if you live.”

Sansa isn’t sure what made her say it, but it only sharpens Cersei’s glare.

“Trust me, child, I would wreak havoc upon you from beyond the grave if you let my babe die.”

“If something is truly wrong, I may not be able to save you or them.”

Cersei releases Sansa’s wrist, eyes moving to the cut she’d inflicted upon Sansa only hours ago.

Cersei turns away, staring at the wall opposite them.

“Save my child,” Cersei repeats, then sets her legs apart. “I’d rather die here.”

 

It all happens very quickly.

Warm blood covers Sansa’s arms and chest, but the babe is screaming, finally screaming, after a torturous minute in which she’d been silent and Cersei had had so little energy to do anything other than quietly murmur, “Her feet. Tap her feet.”

Cersei sighs in contentment upon the bed, eyes closing, but she hums and rouses herself, then holds out her arms.

Sansa places the babe in Cersei’s arms, glancing at the door again, hoping beyond hope that Arya will arrive back any second now, she needs someone to watch out for the babe while she tries to stop the bleeding –

\- gods, there’s so _much_ blood –

But Arya doesn’t come.

It’s just Sansa and Cersei and the baby girl and so much blood between them. Sansa’s tried calling for Brienne, but her faithful knight hasn’t entered so Sansa suspects that she can’t hear her over the sound of the storm.

Sansa has no idea what to _do_ but she knows that Cersei is dying, knows how unlikely it is that she’ll be able to save her, but she can’t help but feel the need to try.

She was going to have a _trial_ godsdammit, it was going to be fair and reasonable but this is – this is _un_ fair, this isn’t just, this is just the will of gods, throwing the dice and deciding who lives and dies, and Sansa is sick of it.

Cersei’s eyes close again as her head lolls, arms slackening around the babe. Sansa lurches forward, abandoning her post of the foot of the bed trying to stem the bleeding with no cloth – because Arya hasn’t returned, fuck _where is she_ – to catch the babe.

Cersei jolts back into consciousness, gripping the babe to her chest.

“No,” she mutters, feverish and delirious, “you can’t take her, you won’t take her, you won’t take another child from me.”

Sansa’s breath hitches as she looks from mother to daughter, Cersei’s face sweaty and pale, and the babe’s covered still in blood.

Holding the babe tightly once again, Sansa leaves Cersei’s side to try yet again to do something.

The babe had come feet first, and Sansa knows how lucky it was that she had come out as unscathed as she has – the issue trying to get her breathe aside – but Sansa knows that without a maester, it’s a fruitless effort to try and save Cersei. She’s torn too much, is losing too much blood, and, at this point, Sansa thinks that Cersei has very little will to live.

Not when she knows this is the only time she’ll ever see her daughter.

Sansa moves between Cersei’s legs again, trying to do _something,_ anything, but Cersei lets her knees straighten out, legs falling to the bed and closing.

Sansa looks up, startled at Cersei’s disobedience when Sansa is trying to save her life, but Cersei has clear eyes upon Sansa.

“I’d rather die here,” Cersei whispers.

Sansa’s eyes flutter closed. Does she owe Cersei that wish? Or does she owe her the effort to save her life?

Sansa doesn’t know. She feels like she doesn’t know anything. She’s just uselessly adrift in a current that she can’t fight against for fear of tiring out and drowning. All she can do is try and stay afloat, but she’s been struggling to do that for so long now. Jon had become such an anchor for her, a will to live, almost, but he isn’t here now. She has to do this herself. She has to make the choice herself – does she go on trying to save Cersei, only to put her to trial and execution later, or does she grant Cersei the kindness of respecting her wishes?

As a Stark, as someone who spent years suffering under Lannister rule, Sansa knows the answer. Trial. It’s what she’s been planning for moons.

But as a woman, as a lady standing before another lady, both having been abused by a system that favoured men over any right a woman wished to exert over her own body - . . .

Sansa has this kindness left to give.

Her hands drop to her sides, and it seems as though Cersei sighs in relief.

Sansa backs away from the bed, then turns her back. She won’t go outside, because when Cersei dies the babe will need someone to catch her, but she will give Cersei the dignity of some privacy.

The waves crash against the island viciously, rain battering the castle as thunder rumbles and lightening illuminates the sky. Sansa stares at the wall, trying to focus on the sounds of the night outside, rather than on Cersei’s murmured goodbyes to her new daughter.

There is no love lost between Cersei and Sansa. Cersei likely still believes Sansa murdered her son, and Sansa will never forget the torment she underwent in King’s Landing, whether at Cersei’s hand or because of her turned eye.

But Sansa spent years worshipping the Queen, and years more living with her.

Listening to her gasp and cough while she tells her daughter how much she loves her, how she hopes she grows up in a better world than the one Cersei endured, how hard she tried to protect her; Sansa isn’t surprised at how tears build up in her eyes and relentlessly stream down her face.

When Cersei breathes her last breath, the world doesn’t feel any different, any better. Sansa is just left in a room with the dead body of a woman she used to admire, a babe that will always be whispered about, and the responsibility of going outside and telling everyone she chose to let Cersei die.

Sansa quickly turns on her heel and rushes to the bedside, placing her hands on the babe’s back to stop it from falling from Cersei’s slackened grip.

Cersei’s eyes are still open.

Sansa gathers the child in her arms, holding it’s slick body to her chest, then reaches up to her own face to wipe away her tears.

Then she closes Cersei’s eyes.

The door swings open. Sansa turns, startled, the outside world having been forgotten for a moment as she stared at her own blood covered hand.

It isn’t Arya, but Jaime.

He’s already crying, already heartbroken, and Sansa wonders if he felt it when Cersei died.

He stumbles over to them, no words on his lips, and Brienne appears in the doorway, eyes widening as her gaze catches on the gruesome sight.

Jaime wordlessly comes to stand before Sansa, eyes flicking between his twin and his child, and he holds out his arms. Sansa passes the babe over, glad to be rid of the worry. But she can’t step away, not when Jaime smooths his golden hand over his daughters head, not when he falls to one knee before Cersei, and not when his silent tears become heartbroken sobs.

Brienne moves in quietly, coming to kneel beside Jaime. She rests her hand against his shoulder, and Jaime’s head dips so that his cheek rests against Brienne’s knuckles.

Arya appears in the doorway, arms laden with cloth, and behind her is a soldier carrying a pale of steaming water.

Arya’s mouth parts as she enters, looking between Cersei’s body, Jaime and the child, and Sansa.

“What happened?” she asks.

Before she realizes what she’s saying, Sansa mouth opens and she says, “I did everything I could. It wasn’t enough.”

Is she sparing herself from their contempt at granting Cersei her wish? Or is she sparing Cersei from their contempt at knowing she died in her own time?

Either way, the lie is out now.

Arya walks in further, the soldier following warily behind her. She stops before Sansa, dropping the cloth to the ground but leaving one in her hand with which she reaches up to wide Sansa’s face.

There must be blood there, Sansa realizes. She’d wiped her tears away with her hand.

The babe cries out as a particularly loud crash of thunder rocks the castle, and Sansa flinches from Arya’s hands.

“Wipe the babe down,” Sansa murmurs. She doesn’t recognize her own voice. “Clean her, use the water –“

“Sansa –“

Sansa turns her back on her sister and the Lannisters, and her feet carry her out of the room. She wanders through the halls, head held high as she passes by Golden Company soldiers and the few maids Cersei had brought as they stare at her gruesome visage.

She makes her way to the room she had been sleeping in with Jon earlier, and once she’s there she realizes she has no idea why. She should’ve stayed to help. Now she’s just in her room, alone, covered head to toe in Cersei’d lifesblood with no way to get it off –

Sansa doesn’t realize she’s crying until she’s clawing at her dress, trying to get it off, and then her door is pulled open and she spins around, dress around falling down to her wrists as she sobs, “I did the right thing!”

It’s Jon, of course it’s Jon, and his hands cup her cheeks and Sansa pays no mind to how dirty she is as she slumps against him. He catches her around the waist, and lowers them both to the ground, and Sansa’s brow rests in the juncture of his throat as her body shakes with her sobs.

Jon doesn’t say anything, and neither does Sansa, not even when Jon starts to cry himself.

They both just sit and release their grief together.

 

Jon

Jon is no fool, no matter what others have come to think of his choices.

He is especially no fool when it comes to Sansa, even if she remains an impenetrable fortress to others. He, unlike others, has spent moon upon moon riding around the freezing North by her side, trying to gather allies, spending night after night shivering in a tent, with nothing but a cup of ale and each other as they pondered over their best course of action; he spent moon upon moon being the King to her Lady, preparing for the coming of the White Walkers and trying to rebuild their homeland together, sitting in front of the fire at night; he spent moon upon moon tracing each letter of every word in all the ravens she sent, trying to act like she would act, decide what she would decide, his every thought and word dedicated to protecting her; and he has now spent moon upon moon as her lover, as her partner, as her husband-if-not-in-name, and whether or not they’ve spent those moons together matters little because when they _were_ by each others’ side he learnt things about her that no one else will ever get the opportunity to learn.

No, Jon is no fool when it comes to Sansa. So despite what it seems, Jon knows that it is not for Cersei that she grieves, not really, even if she’s been inconsolable in the two days since Cersei died.

Sansa grieves for the girl she was, the sweet little girl that knew nothing of hard choices and battle scars and the noises people made as they died. She grieves for Jon, for the lonely boy who became a lonely man, for the death he suffered at the hands of those he trusted and for the honour he sacrificed to keep the realm alive. She grieves for Arya, for the girl who was forced from her homeland, from her continent, forced to travel so far from home she’s become lost and doesn’t know where to land her feet. She grieves for Bran, run out from his home to live in the most unforgiving land, dead but not dead, alive but not alive. She grieves for her mother and father, who had lived the most honourable and dutiful life one could lead, and who were punished for it. She grieves for Robb and Rickon, taken from the world by people who sought power and glory and riches.

Sansa grieves because she is but a young woman, who barters with lives like she is a god, and she wishes she didn’t have to.

The days and nights have passed in a dark blur, the sky constantly marred by thick clouds, the storm unusual considering winter still has them in it’s grip. Yara is getting restless, because she wants to return to the mainland. Jon had spoken to her during the day, and told her that the weather prevented them from leaving.

“So we’re just staying here?” Yara demanded. “With dead bodies around every corner and that _child_ crying at all hours?”

“You would prefer risking your ships and people in this storm?” Jon responded, arms crossed over his chest. “Besides, you can’t leave King’s Landing before the other Lord’s arrive anyway. Would you prefer these dead bodies or those in the city?”

Yara had shut her mouth and stalked away.

Jon lingers outside Sansa’s chambers, unsure whether to enter. With Brienne and Jaime occupied by the babe, they’d not much been protecting Sansa’s door, and Jon is loath to leave it unposted with so many unknown men wandering the halls. If he’s not outside, then Arya is, and if neither of them are it’s because Jon is inside.

It’s getting late and the storm is starting to recede, finally, so Jon thinks they’ll likely be able to leave tomorrow even if he’d faced Yara down today and told her she’d wait for as long as it pleased him.

He doesn’t want to be here any longer either, truthfully.

Jon knocks, and even though she doesn’t reply he slips inside, knowing she’s either sleeping or perhaps even just too exhausted to call out to him.

Sansa peers up at him from the pillow, then lets her head fall back when she realizes it’s just him.

Jon purses his lips and unbuckles his sword belt, then removes the outer layers of his clothes and toes his boots off. In his soft underclothes, Jon slips into the bed beside her, Longclaw within reaching distance.

Sansa immediately curls into him, which is more of a response than he’s gotten from her since Cersei died.

Jon presses a kiss to her forehead, arm curling around her back as she burrows her head into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into his shirt, voice muffled by the howling wind. “I don’t know . . . she wasn’t even . . . I’m sorry.”

Jon shakes his head slightly, then kisses the top of her head again.

“No. No, my love, you don’t need to apologise,” he says. “For grieving, for the choice you made, for anything. You’re doing the best you can, Sansa.”

Her hand fists his shirt, and when she whispers again her voice is choked with tears. “Why does my best never feel like enough?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say at first. He doesn’t know how to tell her that it _is_ enough, that it’s more than any before her have even tried to do, that the mere fact she even feels like this is why he knows Sansa is the best anybody could ask to have speaking for them.

“You can’t save everyone, Sansa,” Jon says finally, because he is no fool when it comes to Sansa. “But you’ve saved as many as you can.”

“We’ll be King and Queen in the North,” Sansa replies, sniffling. “We’ll live the rest of our lives making these decisions over and over, _feeling_ like this over and over.”

When Jon knelt before Sansa while she slept, before he came south to repay his debt to Daenerys, he thought that he might steal Sansa from her bed and take her somewhere far away, where they both could escape their responsibility and their duty and just _be._ Jon had seriously considered it then, and he does again now.

Recklessly, he says, “We could run away. We’ll go North, to the _true_ North, and I’ll build you a house. I’ll hunt for animals, and you can sew our clothes with their pelts and make our meals with their meat. Ghost and Dawn and Jenny will join us, and I’ll add room upon room to our cabin as we fill it with children.”

It’s the most selfish thing he’s ever said aloud.

Sansa picks at his shirt, and he wonders what she’s thinking. Has she entertained these thoughts as seriously as Jon has? Or can she not understand his greed?

“In the Land of Always Winter,” Sansa says finally, voice quiet. “A fitting place for a Stark.”

Jon’s breath hitches. He can see it now; she and he, in a wooden cabin just outside a Wilding settlement, snow falling gently around them as Jon cleaves logs in half for their fire, teaching his son how to hold an axe so as to only have to swing it a few times, Sansa’s singing drifting through the air as she braids their daughter’s hair.

Jon longs for it so viscerally his heart aches.

“Sansa,” he says, and Jon can’t quite believe how emotional he sounds. “If you want that, I will make it happen.”

Sansa goes quiet again, and Jon wonders if he pushed too far.

“It sounds perfect,” she admits after several moments. “Like something out of a storybook.”

Jon knows she’s going to say no. Sansa doesn’t believe in stories, not anymore.

“We can make that happen for other people. Who else would?”

Jon’s vision is something he wants desperately, but there is one thing he wants more, and that’s Sansa. He will follow her to the ends of the world, he will stand strong by her side as her King or Prince Consort, he will hold her at night and put her back together when she can’t stop herself from falling apart, he will give her children and love and laughter, and if she wants to do that in Winterfell then so be it.

“No one else would,” he answers. “And that’s why your best will always be enough, Sansa.”

Her fingers tighten in his shirt again, and she lifts her head so she can look him in the eyes. It’s exceedingly dark in her room, but even so he can still make out her bright blue eyes, her beautiful red hair, the slope of her flushed cheek and the shape of her pink lips.

She leans forward to kiss him, a beautiful and slow pressing of lips, and Jon isn’t sure he’s ever felt more adored than he does in that moment, when Sansa kisses him like there’s nothing else she’d rather be doing, like she knows she’s going to spend the rest of her life in his arms and yet she wants to savour every single moment anyway.

Sansa settles back against his chest, pressing the length of her body just a little tighter to his side.

“Tell me more about our life North of the Wall,” she whispers.

Warmth blooms in his chest as he weaves a picture of simplicity, of snow and children and a strong love between them. He talks and talks and talks, even when Sansa’s breathing evens out and he knows she’s fallen asleep.

As he talks and as he pictures, he realizes that he can have all the same things in Winterfell; and when he falls asleep himself, his dreams bring that future to life.

 

With the majority of Yara’s fleet occupied by taking the Unsullied to Essos, she doesn’t have enough boats to take the Golden Company back, even including the few of Euron’s ships she adds to her fleet.

So the Company comes back to King’s Landing with them, and Jon finds himself in command of enough men that it seems stupid to just wait around. And while they’re here in Westeros, Sansa is paying to have them; so he sets every able bodied man to moving the rubble from the city.

It’s hard work, and Jon doesn’t set any task he wouldn’t do himself, so he finds his days and weeks filled with carting stone. By the time the Lord’s arrive, a significant portion is cleared, and King’s Landing has tentatively started to reestablish itself. It won’t ever return to it’s former glory, but it doesn’t need to. It won’t be the capital city of Westeros after tomorrow.

With so many different Houses having arrived in King’s Landing, Sansa had said that he shouldn’t share her tent at night, no matter how discreet they act. There’s too much at risk, too many people who might be offended by Jon and Sansa’s union now that Varys has told the entire realm Jon is a Targaryen.

Jon’s had to steal as much time in the evening with her as he can, but someone is usually in there with them. If Jon wasn’t longing to be home North before, then being denied time alone with Sansa has him practically itching in his boots to turn home.

This evening, the final evening before the planned meeting in the Dragonpit, his whole family is gathered in Sansa’s tent. Arya and Bran are giving them as much privacy as they can, but, truthfully, it isn’t much. Jon appreciates their effort, but he’s still feeling more than a little frustrated.

Bran is facing the tent entrance, face blank but eyes not rolled back. Jon wonders what he’s thinking about, and can’t help but keep glancing over. Arya is sat on Sansa’s cot, dragging her whetstone down Needle.

Jon’s never found the sound of a sword being sharpened irritating – in fact, when he’s doing it himself, the rhythmic cadence actually lulls his mind – but each swipe of Arya’s hand is making him wince.

Jon is leant against Sansa’s desk, where she sits, staring down at her numbers. With the gold they’d taken from Dragonstone, they’ve found themselves in the unusual position of having enough to pay off the debts the war has incurred, and then some left to start rebuilding Winterfell. Sansa’s strength doesn’t lay with numbers - though she’s good enough that the castle had managed while Jon had been south – and Jon had never been good at them as a child, either, but he’d had extensive practice as the Lord Commander, while Sansa had never really had the opportunity to learn.

He helps her now, the two of them quietly talking about how best to allocate their newfound funds, Arya’s whetstone providing the background noise to their conversation.

“It doesn’t even matter that we have this gold, where are we going to get grain from?” Sansa questions, voice ringing heavily with frustration.

Jon doesn’t have an answer, and he _hates_ not having an answer, and so he takes his own irritation out on the easiest target.

“Arya!” he snaps. “Surely it’s sharp enough by now?”

Arya glares up at him, then takes a very deliberate swipe of the stone.

“ _Arya –“_ he repeats, pushing himself off from the desk.

Sansa’s hand on his knee steadies him. Arya eyes the action sharply, and opens her mouth, likely to spit out a snarky comment about the tempering Sansa so easily served, and Jon’s shoulders hunch, ready to have it out with her, but Sansa rises to her feet before either of them can speak.

“Perhaps it’s time to retire for the evening,” Sansa suggests.

Arya glares at Sansa, but stands and sheaths Needle.

“Best you don’t return to your tent tonight, _brother_ ,” Arya threatens him, glaring fiercely. “I’ll have cut up the canvas. Goodnight, _Bran.”_

“Before you go,” Bran says, turning his head from the tent door and over to Arya. Jon hadn’t even known he’d been listening to them, having not indicated at all he’d heard the brewing argument. “Gendry’s going to accept. With Davos by his side, Gendry believes he can service a Kingdom.”

Jon’s irritation immediately flees him as thinks about what that might mean for Arya.

Sansa and Jon had approached Gendry almost as soon as they’d returned from Dragonstone. He’d been quietly helping clean King’s Landing, and had subsequently fit himself into Jon’s organized clearing once it began.

Sansa, of course, had been pondering who was best to take control of the Stormlands and Crownlands, and she and Jon had both known that a Baratheon would be the most stabilizing option. Gendry had seemed the obvious choice, dutiful and honourable as he was, but the obvious issue was his lack of education, both in running a Kingdom and with skills such as numbers and literacy.

At around the same time, Davos had tentatively expressed a desire to return home to the Stormlands after the wars were over and the North secure, and Sansa had seen it as the perfect solution. Gendry had the name, and Davos had the experience.

Jon and Sansa had discussed Arya’s _fondness_ for Gendry, and on the back of Jon’s discussion with her while he was imprisoned, he’d been unsure whether Arya would follow Gendry south.

He hadn’t thought that Gendry might accept without even discussing it with Arya.

“Good for him,” Arya dismisses, though her shoulders are tense and her face is pinched in a scowl.

“Talk to him,” Bran encourages gently. “You could dissuade him, if you wanted.”

Jon lips purse at the thought, at the inconvenience of having to find another ruler. But then he catches a glimpse of Arya’s face, at the longing that appears before she can hide it from them, and Jon hopes that she’ll talk to Gendry. To dissuade him or not, Jon doesn’t care. He just hopes she doesn’t live the rest of her life wondering what would be different if she’d talked to him tonight.

“The Stormlands need a ruler,” Arya says eventually. “Gendry would be perfect.”

“Arya.” Jon steps forward, before he can think about it. Arya turns to him, eyes piercing, and Jon sighs heavily. He isn’t sure what to say, not really, even though he’s probably the one Arya has spoken to most about Gendry. Jon inclines his head to the side, slightly towards Sansa, as he says, “If you love him, truly love him, then you should let nothing stand in your way. It would do you both the greatest tragedy.”

Arya hides her face from him, so he can’t see the response she has. She slips from the tent without another word. Behind him, Sansa hand curls around his bicep, and she rests her chin on his shoulder.

“What can we do?” she asks quietly.

Jon turns his head, and catches her lips in a quick kiss. _Being without you would have been my greatest tragedy_ he says with the action. _I’m so glad I kissed you that day in the Broken Tower._

“This is up to them,” he replies. “We can’t do anything.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Bran interjects, settling back in his chair to stare yet again at the door. “They’ll come to an agreement.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Sansa says, though her lips tilt up into a small smile.

Jon can’t help but press another quick kiss her pretty mouth.

“I think I’ll retire for the evening as well,” Bran says, instead of replying. “Don’t linger too long, Jon. The Martell’s aren’t a trusting pair, not anymore, and they especially won’t be with _you.”_

Jon nods, then moves to open the tent. Brienne peers over her shoulder at the sound, bags under her eyes.

“Ser Brienne, would you please take Bran to his tent? Then retire for the evening Ser, I will organize the night guard for Lady Stark.”

Brienne offers no protest, a testament to how tired she must be – she’s been assisting Ser Jaime when she has the opportunity, and sleeping only a tent over from a newborn has severely impacted her sleep schedule – and silently wheels Bran away.

When Jon turns back, Sansa is sitting at her desk again.

“We’ll go over this one last time?” Sansa asks, head bent over her desk.

Jon thinks she means the numbers, but when he joins her he sees that she’s actually got her map of Westeros uncovered. He braces one hand against the edge of the table, then curls the other around the back of Sansa’s chair.

Jon doesn’t need to go over it again, and neither does Sansa, but he says, “Of course,” anyway, because he knows how nervous she is. And rightfully so, because this may be going to end favourably for each of the Kingdoms, but they can’t have relations be damaged in any way.

“Gendry will be King of The Stormlands,” Sansa starts, fingers smoothing over Storm’s End on the map.

“Which will include the principality of the Crownlands, as it did traditionally, before Aegon’s Conquest,” Jon adds.

“Yara will be Queen of the Isles and Uncle Edmure will be King of the Rivers, as was my agreement with them in return for joining me against Daenerys.”

Jon smiles, eyes moving from the map at to her. “Have I told you yet how brilliant it was to promise them something you were going to give them anyway?”

Sansa chuckles, then rests her chin in her palm so she can look up at him. “Not yet,” she replies, a cheeky grin spreading across her face.

Jon leans down, nudging his nose against her. “That was brilliant,” he breathes, lips ticking hers as he speaks. “Truly, you astound me.”

Sansa joins their mouths, smiling as she does, as Jon takes the opportunity to open his lips and lick into her mouth. Sansa gasps, turning in her chair, fingers greedily seeking his bound curls.

Oh how he’s _ached_ for this.

Before he can loose himself completely, Sansa pulls away. She licks her lips and looks up at him, looking entirely satisfied.

“Robin Arryn will retain control and become King of the Mountain and the Vale,” Sansa says, completely ignoring how desperately he wants her, and Jon groans, brow bracing against her shoulder.

Fuck he wants her so badly.

“Sansa,” he whispers, nuzzling into her neck. “ _Please.”_

She goes still, breath hitching, and with an appropriate amount of regret she says, “We can’t. Just a few more days Jon, and then we’ll be on our way North and we’ll be married and you can have me for real.”

He’s half hard just at the _thought_ of finally burying himself in her slick heat.

“I don’t think I can wait more than a few days,” he admits.

“You just spent moons down here without me,” Sansa points out, rolling her eyes at his melodrama.

“Aye, but you weren’t close enough for me to touch without being allowed to. Now you’re here, tempting me all the time with your pretty hair and pretty eyes and pretty lips.”

Sansa laughs, and shakes her head at him.

“Just a few days,” she promises, then turns back to the map. Jon can’t help but let a small smile lift the corners of his lips at her stubborn will to go over this again. “Jaime will become King of the Rock.”

Jon is most unsure about this appointment, mostly because he doubts the other rulers will take kindly to it, but he supposes that it’s not really up to them.

“Alerie Tyrell brought her sister Lynesse Hightower,” Sansa continues, then admits, “I’m not sure what that means. I suppose it could be her wariness of us and Cersei, but I don’t know what it will mean for the Queenship. Alerie might take it, but she may consider herself too old to be Queen of The Reach and will pass the crown to Lynesse. At least Lynesse could still have children.”

Jon scoffs. “After her marriage to Jorah Mormont, I doubt she’ll marry again.”

Sansa shrugs. “She has a paramour though, and I don’t care whether her children are legitimate or not, as long as she names them her heirs. Though at least the North doesn’t border the Reach, so we don’t really have to worry about a power struggle after neither Alerie nor Lynesse’s deaths.”

“But you think they’ll accept independence?” Jon questions, because he’s not had much to think about while he’d been lifting stone and so his thoughts had lingered with the imminent separation of the Kingdoms. “Being part of the Seven Kingdoms worked fairly well for them.”

“Alerie lost both her children because of Cersei; the recent years haven’t done the Reach kindly,” Sansa says, eyes going distant as her fingers clench. Jon rests one of his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “I think they would be as hesitant as anyone to accept a single King ruling over the continent . . . Margaery once told me that she learnt her tricks from her mother. Margaery knew how to play the game as well as Cersei, but at least she was kind. If Alerie is anything like her daughter, the Reach will be in good hands.”

Jon can’t help but hope so, even if it doesn’t have anything to do with him. He wants each people to prosper under this new regime, otherwise what would be the point of it all?

“And finally Dorne,” Jon says. “I have most trouble with this family tree, truthfully.”

“It’s confusing,” Sansa admits. “Arianne and Quentyn Martell have come. They’re Doran Martell’s children, siblings to Trystane. Oberyn and Elia’s niece and nephew. Arianne is who Doran appointed his heir.”

Jon winces at the mention of Elia. He can imagine that they’re who are going to bring up his parentage tomorrow, and likely they won’t be kind. He doesn’t blame them, not really, but Jon can already feel the start of a headache.

“Trystane and Doran were killed in Ellaria and the Sand Snakes’ rebellion, but Arianne and Quentyn weren’t.”

“Yes,” Sansa says. “They weren’t in Sunspear when Ellaria rebelled and took control. My understanding is that once Arianne and Quentyn learnt of their father and brother’s deaths, they disappeared and bided their time. After Cersei imprisoned Ellaria and her daughters, Arianne and Quentyn retook Sunspear and pledged to Daenerys, though I wouldn’t presume to know why. Ellaria allied with Daenerys – who did nothing to free her – but, really, Cersei eliminated a threat to them. Ellaria would have killed them, I’m sure, if she got the chance. Likely they thought Daenerys would win, what with the dragons and all. In any case, I doubt they’re particularly upset about Daenerys’ death, so the worst we have to worry about with them is - . . .”

“Me,” Jon says bitterly. “And the dishonor Rhaegar brought Elia.”

“I don’t know them well,” Sansa admits. “I’ve tried to spend some time with them in the week since they arrived, but they’ve not been receptive. I don’t blame them, of course, but it might mean they’re angry. Though they pledged to Daenerys, Rhaegar’s sister, with little complaint so I can’t imagine that they’ll blame you and not her. At least you don’t want to be their King. Dorne wants their independence as badly as the North.”

“Then that’s what we bring the conversation back around to,” Jon decides. “Any time they express unease or unhappiness, we bring it back to the separation and their independence.”

Sansa smiles up at him, then swivels in her chair. She pushes the chair back slightly, then spreads her legs. She reaches out to him but he’s already eagerly stepping between her legs, hands curling around her neck and thumbs titling her chin up so he can nip at her bottom lip.

“Five minutes,” she murmurs against him, letting him push her thighs further apart with his knees. “Then you’ve got to go.”

“Didn’t you hear?” he replies, falling to his knees before her, hands sliding underneath her dress to cup her thighs. He watches as each inch of her creamy skin is revealed to him, his goal to get his mouth on her sweet cunt. “Arya’s cut the canvas of my tent. I can’t sleep in there tonight.”

Sansa gasps, more subdued than usual, and presses her knuckles into her mouth as his fingers dip beneath her smallclothes and seek her heat.

“You still can’t – _gods,_ Jon – can’t stay here.”

He pulls her smallclothes down and throws them away, then hitches one of her thighs over his shoulder. He swipes up her slit; Sansa’s groan is muffled by her knuckles. Jon frowns, determined to make her keen loudly, then reaches up to part her folds with his fingers. He sets his mouth on her nub eagerly, tongue circling around and drawing a hitched gasp from her.

“I want to hear you,” Jon mutters, parting his mouth from her only for as long as it takes him to say it.

“Jon, we – we can’t – gods, _yes,_ stay there – if someone hears –“

He grunts in displeasure, but he _knows_ she’s right; it doesn’t stop him from sucking her a little harder, circling her a little faster, just because he wants to see if he can make her forget about it. She doesn’t, but when he makes her peak she bites down so hard on her hand that there are teeth marks imprinted on her skin afterwards, so Jon figures that that’s the next best thing.

The taste of her is enough to carry with him to his own tent – which is, blessedly, unharmed by Arya’s sword – and even though he wishes he could have stayed with Sansa, he retreats into his adjacent tent so he can take himself in hand and lick Sansa’s taste from his lips as he spills.

 

Jon’s spine is straight as he sits beside Sansa in the circle of chairs in the Dragonpit.

Arya sits on his other side, Bran on the other side of her, Brienne standing behind them. Davos sits on Sansa’s other side, and Gendry sits next to Davos. Beside Gendry is Jaime, babe left in the care of her wet nurse. Yohn Royce is seated between Jaime and Robin Arryn, and next to Robin is Edmure Tully, who is sending Jaime wary glances. Yara is beside Edmure, and Arianne and Quentyn Martell are beside her. They’re speaking quietly to each other, eyes constantly travelling around the group, but Jon knows their gaze falls on him more often than not.

Alerie Tyrell and Lynesse Hightower are the last to arrive, three guards behind them, and the closer they get to the group the more displeased they seem.

The men stand as the final two Ladies’ take their place in the circle. Alerie and Lynesse take their seats, and Jon settles back into his seat as the other Lords do.

“I’d hoped the rumours of Cersei’s death would prove unfounded, Lady Stark,” Alerie Tyrell says bitterly, mouth turned down into a scowl. “But she isn’t here, and the rumours are proved true. Perhaps you aren’t as capable as your escape from King’s Landing would make you seem.”

Jon blinks in surprise at Alerie’s displeasure coming out so soon, but his surprise quickly turns into defensiveness. His brow pulls down into a glare, lips pursed.

“Cersei Lannister died in childbirth on Dragonstone,” Sansa replies, voice even and firm, the voice she used with Daenerys. “With no maester, I did what I could to save her. Believe me, Lady Alerie, I wanted to see her face a trial as much as you did.”

“If that were true, then she would be here,” Alerie responds sharply, hands clenching together tightly in her lap. “She _murdered_ my two children, and her death on Dragonstone is supposed to provide justice for that?”

“Justice has been provided for nothing she did,” Sansa says flatly. She remains calm in her seat, not showing her anger like Alerie is, but Jon in sure she is thinking on Cersei’s crimes against their own family, much like Jon is. “But I can’t change that fact any more than I change what she did.”

“The child?” Lynesse demands, speaking before Alerie can. All eyes shift to Jaime. “Where is the child?”

Sansa had assumed that Cersei and Jaime’s daughter would be demanded in lieu of Cersei, and Sansa had told Jon in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t let that happen. Not that he’d ever thought it would; Sansa had gone to great lengths to ensure that Cersei’s trial would have happened after the child’s birth, so that she would be not be punished for her mother’s crimes. Sansa had always known the risk in that, but she’d not been willing to negotiate, and rightly so, in Jon’s opinion.

“The child will be dealt with,” Sansa says ambiguously, but in a tone that dares anyone to argue with her.

Lynesse proves to be braver than she looks when she tilts her chin up and hisses, “That _child_ might grow up as crazy as it’s mother. And the Reach will not accept another Lannister monarch.”

Sansa stands, and despite Lynesse and Alerie being her seniors and having both just proved they are willing to stand against her, neither of them challenge Sansa as she gives them a fearsome glare.

They’ve given Sansa the perfect opportunity to announce the separation, and she takes it gladly.

“While I invited you all under the pretense of a trial for Cersei, it was not my main reason for calling you here,” Sansa starts.

Arianne and Quentyn Martell stand abruptly from their seats, hands falling to the weapons on their hips.

Jon rises as well, shifting slightly in front of Sansa as his hand wraps around Longclaw’s pommel; suddenly the Dragonpit is filled with the noise of swords ringing as each Lord and Lady or their guards stand on the defensive.

“Princess Arianne, Prince Quentyn, I assure you I have not lured you here to kill you and take control of Westeros,” Sansa says calmly from behind Jon.

“Then why are we here?” Arianne demands. Jon eyes her warily, the spear she has in her hand clutched tightly. “We know that one dragon still lives, and we know that he has dragonblood.”

Jon can’t help but feel shame bubble up in him at the mention of his lineage. Gods how he wishes it weren’t true, that the dragonblood did not exist inside him. But over the course of the past year it has been proven time and time again; the rage he has so much difficulty controlling now, the connection he had with Rhaegal, the lust he holds for his sister-cousin.

“Everyone return to your seats,” Sansa commands. Jon glances behind him to see Sansa sit back in her chair, hands folding neatly in her lap. She stares at him pointedly, and Jon shakes his head at her, but she remains resolute.

“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. He looks around the group once more, unwilling to sheath his weapon first, but when he turns back to her Sansa has raised an impatient brow at him. He takes a deep breath, then grunts and sheaths Longclaw.

Jon takes his seat beside Sansa, back stiff.

“Arya,” Sansa calls.

“Fucking hell,” Arya swears, as reluctant as Jon to put away her weapon. “I hate this fucking place.”

She sheaths Needle, then takes her seat as well.

“Everyone, please sit.” The groups eye each other warily, and Sansa’s patience runs thin. “ _Now.”_

They each take their seats, until only Arianne and Quentyn remain standing.

“We do not trust you,” Quentyn says, voice heavily accented. “Especially not now Jon Snow’s parentage has been revealed and Lord Eddard Starks’ deception laid bare. It was always thought that the Starks were too honourable to lie, but we know better than to trust you now.”

“I don’t need you to trust us,” Sansa replies. “I only need you to put your weapons down and sit.”

“Not until you tell us where the dragon is,” Arianne says. Jon understands why she is afraid; she and her brother are the last survivors of their house, having only survived Ellaria’s coup through complete chance. Why would they trust strangers? Especially with their connection to a House that they loathe – and Jon can’t blame them for that either. He himself hates Rhaegar and House Targaryen for the disrespect they showed Elia Martell.

Jon glances over to Bran, whose eyes are white.

“Bran is in control of Drogon now,” Jon replies for Sansa. “He’s bringing him here, to the Dragonpit. As a way to prove that I have no wish to rule over the Seven Kingdom’s, Drogon will be executed here today by my own hand. Will this prove to you that I have no desire to restore House Targaryen?”

Quentyn and Arianne glance at each other, and then to Bran and finally to Jon.

“Yes,” Arianne says finally. “That will be proof enough for me.”

“You must swear to forsake the Targaryen name,” Quentyn demands, hand still clenched around his spear. “You must vow to never take the name, nor make any claim to any lands or titles the name might have afforded you.”

Jon has no problem with making such a vow; he’s already made it to himself.

“Yes,” Arienna agrees quickly, nodding in agreement. “You will forever be a Snow. Swear it now and after the dragon dies we will be done with this for good.”

The group around them grumbles in agreement, but Jon hesitates for a moment. Swearing away his Targaryen name is one thing; vowing to remain a Snow forever is another. He and Sansa have whispered late at night their agreement that he would take the Stark name after they marry, and he won’t jeopardize that for a vow he can’t forsake.

“Actually,” Sansa interrupts. “Jon and I are betrothed. He won’t take the Targaryen name; he will take Stark.”

Jon glances over to Sansa, as does most everyone in the circle, surprised by the news. For how strict she had been about no one knowing of their relationship, he’s surprised she would reveal it to everyone so easily. He’s glad, though, that she’s spoken up, because he hadn’t known whether or not he should, and Sansa’s always going to be better than him at weighing up the risks when it comes to politics.

“Snow or Stark, your marriage matters little to us,” Arianne replies impatiently, as if the news of his marriage to Sansa means absolutely nothing to her. “As long as neither he nor your children are Targaryen’s.”

“I swear it,” Jon vows easily, taking the opportunity to agree before anyone else speaks up and starts making demands. “I forsake the name Targaryen, and swear never to make a claim for King of Westeros, nor for the seat of Dragonstone. My children will be named Stark.”

Arianne hesitates, and glances at Quentyn again, but he nods at her and they both take their sea

Jon can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Sansa’s plan has been derailed, but now they have dealt with what promised to be the biggest point of contention between them all, and he’s glad they can move on to the main point having already laid the issue of his parentage to rest.

And now everyone knows he’s to marry Sansa; perhaps she’ll let him warm her bed tonight.

“Now that we’ve discussed that,” Sansa says, and Jon can tell she feels a little relieved. Sansa had planned to bring up those more sensitive topics after she’d softened it with the discussion of the separation – but now she doesn’t need to bother. Now she can just talk about the thing that everyone will want to hear. “The reason I brought you all here. For too long Westeros has suffered under Targaryen madness, or Baratheon neglect, or Lannister cruelty. We all stand here today, the leaders of our regions, and know our people best, know of our own people’s cultures, their wants and needs, and we all know that having one single monarch reign over us all has brought only suffering. We all know the corruption the Iron Throne brought to any who sat upon it and claimed to be Protector of the Realm. The North claims it’s independence, as does the Iron Islands and the Riverlands. I propose that we needn’t stop there; we should mark the peace of the next era with the Separation of Kingdoms.”

Jon tears his eyes from Sansa’s for long enough to see the reactions of the group around them; parted lips, gasps of surprise, brows high enough on foreheads to disappear into hairlines. Then he turns back to her and the proud and fearsome visage she marks.

Jon can’t help the love that swells up in his chest and threatens to choke him. This is all because of her. She was the one who wanted to take back Winterfell in the Stark name, even when he felt hopeless and lost and like such an act would be pointless. It was her tenacity to take back their home that drew their remaining siblings back; and with the four of them in Winterfell, the Starks have waged a war against any and all threats to the realm. And now that they have emerged, battered and scathed but in victory, Sansa leads the realm back to their independence.

Sansa rises from her seat as none in the group speak out against the idea.

“From this day forth, the realm will be split into eight independent Kingdoms. The North, the Riverlands, the Mountain and Vale, the Isles, the Rock, the Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne. Each of you have been called here to take up the heavy burden of being the King or Queen to your Kingdom.”

“You’re just . . . separating the Kingdoms?” Arianne asks, head tilting to the side as if she doesn’t understand.

“Unless anyone would prefer to remain as one?” Sansa replies, brow raised.

Arianne shakes her head. “Dorne has always desired it’s independence,” she says quickly. “But you plan to just grant it?”

“The North desires theirs as well,” Sansa says gently. “There is no reason why we should be independent and yet you all should remain shackled to the Throne.”

No one else says anything.

Is it really that simple? Is this five minutes of discussion all is takes to undo what the Targaryen’s spent three hundred years trying to put together?

“Well, then,” Sansa says, and there is no hiding the satisfaction lining her voice and face. “While we wait for Drogon, let’s talk border security and trade.”


	10. The Iron Throne Pt IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a whole big author's note planned, but i want to let this chapter speak for itself. 
> 
> enjoy.

 

Arya

Negotiations have lasted a fortnight, but now they’ve over and the new Kings and Queens of Westeros are to turn home.

Arya finds herself out of time yet again.

While most of the new monarchs leave the city as quickly as they can, Sansa and Jon plan to linger for several more days. They’re going to officially hand over the formidable task of rebuilding King’s Landing to the Crownlands and Stormlands new King, who is planning to stay to oversee the beginning of the construction himself before he returns to establish his seat.

Not that Arya has actually spoken to Gendry in weeks. That’s just what Sansa told her.

She wants to speak with him, she truly does, but she doesn’t know what she’d say.

The last time they’d spoken had been moons ago now, the night following the defeat of the Night King, when Arya had made the stupid decision to come south.

Gendry had admitted that he loved her that night.

 _Gods_ how she wishes she’d stayed in Winterfell and let him love her, let herself love him.

If she went to him now, what would he say? Does he love her still? Or has she done too much damage to his heart?

Would he turn her away before she admits to him that she made a terrible mistake?

There’s only one way to find out, of course, but Arya is too much of a coward. She can leave for Braavos on her own, she can train amongst assassins, she can kill the Night King and stand near a dragon – but she can’t go tell a man she wants to spend the rest of her life with him.

That she loves him.

Being brave is very different when she doesn’t have her sword in her hand.

Sansa pushes her way into Arya’s tent, two braids tight against her head, her leather armour-like dress curved over her body.

Arya sighs. She knows the pain and torment Sansa’s beauty has brought her, the attention that’s followed her everywhere and the way people have used her because of it. She wonders, though, if this would all be a bit easier if she were . . . prettier. More feminine.

No, no, that’s not right. That’s not _her._ She doesn’t want to be Queen, and she doesn’t want to give up her sword, and she’s _never_ liked dresses and it’s silly to want to look like Sansa.

Still . . .

“Arya,” Sansa greets smiling warmly. “Jon and I were just about –“

Arya sighs again, and it cuts Sansa off. Her sister eyes her warily, and Arya looks away.

She hadn’t meant to sigh like that, but she’s becoming more unpredictable, more unable to tame her emotion. This . . . _thing_. . . with Gendry is the last thing on top of an already large list of things that has swept her feet out from under her and left her floundering. It has completely knocked the air from her lungs.

Everything feels like it’s spiraling out of her control because she can’t figure out what to do. She hasn’t sharpened Needle in days, she’s not sure when she last saw Bran, and she’s fairly sure the last time she sparred was before she went to Dragonstone.

Arya moves her legs as Sansa comes to sit on her cot, bracketing Arya’s legs between her hip and the hand she braces on the other side of the bed.

“I haven’t seen you in a few days,” Sansa says gently. Arya doesn’t feel condescended, though she wishes she did. It would make this easier if she could just be _angry._ Mostly, though, Sansa just feels so . . . warm. So kind. So much like their mother.

Arya shifts on the bed, turning on to her side so she can avoid Sansa’s searching eyes.

“Hey, hey,” Sansa whispers, reaching out to brush Arya’s hair from her eyes. Arya’s surprised to feel her throat start to burn and her eyes water. A traitorous tear falls and drops from the tip of her nose, and Arya furiously scrubs away any more tears. “Talk to me, Arya.”

Arya stubbornly keeps her mouth closed, unsure what she’d say to Sansa anyway.

“Do you want me to get Jon?” Sansa asks, brushing Arya’s hair again.

Arya shakes her head, and feels the keen desire for Sansa to keep smoothing her hair away. She does, and Arya settles into her pillow, eyes slipping closed as Sansa’s rhythmic movement settle her frantic heart.

She lets herself breathe evenly for a few moments, then opens her eyes. She glances up to Sansa’s worried face, then sighs and looks away again. This time when she glances over to her sister, she fixes her gaze slightly below Sansa’s chin so she doesn’t have to look at that expression.

She’s still not sure what she’ll say, but then her gaze catches on a purple bloom on Sansa’s neck, mostly hidden by the collar of her dress.

Despite all odds, despite their childhood and Sansa’s abuse and Jon’s _death_ and everything that has or could have come between them, they’re still both here, in love and so obviously devoted to each other in a way that Arya hasn’t seen in years.

Maybe since her parents.

It’s just so _pure_ and everything she could want for Sansa.

Arya may not want to be married and have children and run a Keep and Kingdom like Jon and Sansa, but she still wants someone to stand by her side and love her, flaws and ambitions and all. A family is about all she’s wanted since she was forced from her own.

And she adores her siblings, gods she does, and being home in Winterfell has thawed what Braavos hardened but those things aren’t forever. They wouldn’t have been forever even if Robert Baratheon hadn’t come North, and they aren’t forever now.

She has to make her own destiny – and, to Arya, forever looks a lot like Gendry.

“How did you . . .” Arya clears her throat, trying to rid her voice of it’s hoarseness. “You and Jon . . . how did you . . .”

What is she even trying to ask?

After a few moments, Sansa admits, “It wasn’t always so easy.” She looks down at Arya, trying to see if the answer is what Arya is searching for. Arya nods in encouragement. “We built our relationship from nothing. When I first saw him in Castle Black . . . gods, Arya. I had been so alone for so long, hurt and tormented in every way a person can be hurt and tormented. And he just . . . he just held me. It was so kind, so gentle. Even now, I couldn’t tell you who had been the last person to do that before him. He was still a brother to me then, but, truthfully, I don’t know at what point I truly fell _in_ love with him.”

Arya is completely enraptured by Sansa’s gentle story, the loving lilt to her words, the far-away look in her eyes. Gentle loves like theirs are hardly ever the focus of grand stories; they’re not interesting enough, not filled with enough large, romantic gestures. And yet, Sansa makes it sound even more romantic than the stories she loved as a child.

“We spent moons together at Castle Black,” Sansa continues, a little smile on her lips. “He gave me the Lord Commander’s rooms, even though he had refused the title of Lord Commander at that point. He’d just – well he’d just, you know –“

“Died?” Arya supplies helpfully.

Sansa laughs, a tight, forced laugh. “Gods, it’s hard to even say that. I could have lost him before I even . . . it’s hard to imagine where I would be if I had arrived at the Wall and Jon was . . .”

Arya ponders that for a moment, Sansa’s retrospective fear and relief.

Is that how she will feel if she goes to Gendry now? In ten years, will she look back on this moment as a turning point, as a point in which her life could be considerably different – worse, perhaps – if it didn’t fall in to place?

“I remember him taking me to the top of the Wall on days I was sad, because he knew the wonder the view inspires,” Sansa says softly. “He would take me just beyond the Wall on days I was feeling restless. He would sleep in the chair by the fire when I needed someone close, or he would sleep outside the door when I couldn’t bear to have a man in my chambers. We reminisced on our childhood, and we shared parts of what happened to us while we were apart, and then . . . and then a raven from Ramsay arrived.”

It’s almost funny how Arya’s heart seizes. She’s so caught up in the story that she’d forgotten it wasn’t always so sweet, or even that it actually happened to her siblings and so recently. She fears for them, even though that’s silly because obviously they come out victorious.

“I convinced Jon that we should take our home back. We travelled for moons together, trying to convince the Northern Houses to our cause. Gods, it was so – I think it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. To try and convince those people to follow Jon, a bastard, and me, a woman, to take back Winterfell on little more than loyalty . . . they were all so frightened to go against the Boltons, and too scared that we would lose. It was cold, and dreary, we were working against time because we didn’t want winter to arrive and bring with it the type of storms that ruined Stannis.

“He and I fought, Arya, like you wouldn’t believe. We had such different ideas on how to take Winterfell; Jon, obviously, had actual experience in strategy and war, and it often felt like he thought his opinion better than mine. But I knew Ramsay. I knew his intellect, and his desire to not only defeat his enemy, but to watch the realization that they were to lose bloom in their eye.”

Sansa’s jaw clenches tightly as she looks away for a moment, fury blazing in her Tully eyes.

“The night before the battle, Jon and I screamed at each other in his tent. I told him he was making a mistake, and he told me that we had no other choice. I particularly remember this moment where I told him that if Ramsay won, I wouldn’t go back there alive. At the time, he told me . . . he said, _‘_ I’ll protect you, I promise.’ Gods, I was so angry at him then that all I said back was that he couldn’t protect anyone. I found out later, I’m not even sure Jon knows that I know, that after that War Council he went to Melisandre and told her that if they lost, and he died, he didn’t want her to bring him back.”

Sansa goes quiet, a thoughtful look on her face. It seems too keen a coincidence, Jon asking not to be brought back to life if they lost after having learnt Sansa would take matters in to her own hands. It seems . . . well Arya doesn’t know what it seems, but it’s an intense and heady thing to know, and she can only imagine what Jon had been feeling when he’d made that request, or what Sansa had felt when she’d found out that he had.

Arya lets Sansa linger in the quiet to bring her thoughts together, because it’s an intricate story and likely fairly overwhelming. Arya isn’t even sure how she would try and tell the story of she and Gendry.

“I think he’d realized his feelings for me long before I ever did for him,” Sansa says finally. “I don’t know, does that disgust you? That he might have loved me before we even took Winterfell back?”

Arya finds herself shaking her head before she even thinks of a response. It seems so natural when laid out like this. _Of course_ they’d fallen in love; they were the only thing the other had, and they had been relying on each other and hoping the other wouldn’t let them down.

“Maybe he was still confused then, and why wouldn’t he have been?” Sansa says, licking her lips. “He’d spent his whole life fighting against the reputation bastards are given, of their dishonor and their baseborn desires, and he’d proven time and time again that he was the best of us. And then all it took was my arrival and he would have thought that he’d finally proven them all right. If I’d realized my own feelings earlier, I would have fought against them as well. But I found myself irrevocably in love before I even knew my perception of him had changed. I was powerless to stop it then, but Jon left for Dragonstone soon thereafter. And he came back with Daenerys.”

Sansa shakes her head slowly, then suddenly scoffs. “I don’t know how much of us you were aware of at that point, but he and I . . . gods Arya, I threatened to kick him out of Winterfell over it all. But once he confessed the truth of what he’d done while on Dragonstone, and once he told me the truth of his birth . . . it all just changed so suddenly. We didn’t admit our feelings to each other until after the victory feast after the Long Night, but we also hardly acted appropriately.”

“I remember,” Arya says, interjecting for the first time. “I remember how odd I thought it all was, but mostly I’d just put it down to you and he never being close and then not having found a balance. Until he told me about Rhaegar. Once I learnt that, it was like everything shifted and I saw the truth of it.”

Sansa eyes Arya thoughtfully, hand retreating from where it had still been smoothing over her hair. Her hands fold in her lap, fingers twisting together.

“Jon and I . . . we love each other,” Sansa says simply. “I would do anything for him, and I know he’d do anything for me. Because we both know that, because we both know that our first thought is always for the other, that what we do is to _protect_ the other . . . we can come to understandings now. But we would _never_ have been able to make as strong a relationship as we have now if we hadn’t started to talk to each other. But it’s not just talk, Arya, it’s really communicate. It means telling him everything, the little things, the big things, the things that annoy me and the things that I adore. Jon can’t read my mind . . . and Gendry can’t read yours.”

Arya’s breath hitches.

“But what if he . . . what if we can’t come to an understanding? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? Or if he does, he’s going to be a King. I don’t want to be a Queen. I don’t even want to live in the south forever.”

Sansa ponders that for a moment, leaning back again so that her hand rests over Arya’s thighs.

“Well, why do you have to?” Sansa questions finally. “You’ve never been conventional. Why do you need to _stay_ in Storm’s End? You could spend six moons in Storm’s End, and then come to Winterfell for six moons. Or travel around Westeros, or go back to Essos, or do whatever you want to do, really. You don’t have to _marry_ Gendry and stay there forever.”

“What about heirs?” Arya asks immediately, out of instinct. She’s not ever really wanted children, but it’s another thing standing in their way now. Even she knows that establishing heirs brings stability.

“They don’t need to be trueborn,” Sansa responds. “Robb named Jon his heir. _Gendry_ is going to be King. If they’re established by law, then it hardly matters.”

Arya goes quiet, unsure how to rebuke that but still feeling like it’s not enough.

“Now all you have to do is go and tell him how you feel.”

Right. _All_ she has to do. Sansa makes it seem effortless.

Arya looks up to her sister’s earnest and caring face, and forces herself to remember that, no, it _isn’t_ effortless, and Sansa doesn’t think it is.

She just knows how worthwhile talking will be.

There’s some shuffling outside, then Jon bustles in, saying, “Are you two still in here?”

He pauses just inside the tent, hesitating as he looks over them both.

Arya feels completely startled at his intrusion. Partly because they’d just been talking about him, and partly because she would feel too exposed if he knew the nature of her difficulty.

“Have I interrupted something?” he asks guiltily.

Arya bites her lip and tries to avoid turning her face into her pillow because she’s not eight years old anymore.

Sansa extends her hand to him, and he comes to her side to take it. His other hand cups her nape and he leans down slightly to press a kiss to her temple, then he straightens to look down at Arya.

She can’t help but look at them both. Sansa leans her head into his hip, and the hand he’d used to cup her neck settles atop her shoulder. They’re just so . . . content.

Gods, they look like mother and father.

“Arya and I were just talking about the ride back North,” Sansa lies easily, smiling up at him.

“Oh?” Jon hums, turning to smile at Arya. “You’re coming with us?”

Sansa looks at her as well, biting her lip, an apology in her eyes. Sansa couldn’t have known, however, all the talk she and Jon had of returning North while he was imprisoned. Sansa couldn’t have known that Jon would question her lie any further.

“We were actually talking about Gendry,” Arya confesses on a whim. “Sansa’s trying to convince me that I should talk to him.”

“She’s probably right,” Jon agrees easily.

“I usually am,” Sansa quips, smiling widely. “Even when it comes to love. I’ve picked up some knowledge over the past couple of years.”

“Oh please, you were always the most well-versed,” Arya scoffs, trying to hide her grin.

“Not like this,” Sansa disagrees softly, glancing up to Jon.

Arya grunts in displeasure as Jon leans down for a soft kiss. It’s all just _way_ too romantic. It’s sweet, and she’s happy for them, but it’s very sappy, very sentimental. It’s not exactly what she wants for herself. She just wants understanding. She wants support, someone who knows her, and who lets her do what she needs and be who she is.

“What did you come for?” Arya asks when Jon stands again.

“We were just going for supper,” Sansa says, standing from the cot finally. “I just wanted to know if you were joining us.”

Her stomach feels tight and churns uncomfortably, because this conversation has been leading to one thing and it’s time for her to do it now. She couldn’t possibly eat when she feels so nervous.

“No,” she decides. “No, I - . . . no.”

She doesn’t offer anymore, because she’s already revealed a lot this evening and she’s got another emotional conversation ahead of her.

Sansa nods readily, giving her an encouraging smile. She leans down to gift her a quick kiss on her forehead, and Jon gives her a parting smile.

He drops Sansa’s hand as they both make their way to the exit, and Arya blinks rapidly at the reminder that they can’t act the way they truly are while they’re unmarried and around all these people.

“Jon, when did you realize you were in love with me?” Sansa asks curiously as they both near the exit to the tent.

Jon’s eyes dart to Arya to briefly and then he disappears out the door. As he holds the tent open for Sansa to leave, Arya hears him say awkwardly, “Uh, I’m not sure you actually want to know the answer to that.”

Their steps disappear, and she hears neither Sansa’s nor Jon’s response, even though Sansa’s story has made her a little curious herself.

No matter. She’s got her own story to write.

 

She waits for Gendry in his tent. She’d considered going to see him while he’d been eating his supper around the fire, but there were too many things wrong with that plan. She would have to seek him out with people watching, and he might refuse to come with her.

This way is just better.

She doesn’t pry around, even though she desperately wants to and her training practically screams at her that she’s missing an opportunity.

But Sansa’s voice rings true in her mind, telling her that she’s actually trying to establish a relationship of equals with him, not find out information to store away for later.

When Gendry finally enters, he doesn’t notice her at first. He stumbles through the tent, and it takes Arya all of a second to realize he’s had a bit to drink. It makes her freeze for a moment, suddenly wary and unsure that she should be here, but before she can quietly make her way out he spots her perched atop his bed.

He goes completely still, eyes widening as they fall on her. He’s entirely startled by her, and his surprise seems to make all words disappear from her.

Then he shakes his head and starts to move around the tent, mumbling quietly to himself.

“Gods, had too much to drink,” he mutters as he starts to rummage through a pile of clothes. “Too much. Seeing things. Fuck Gendry, get a hold of yourself.”

“What, you think I’m not really here?” Arya questions, tilting her head in surprise.

Gendry looks up at her, mouth gaping for a second, and then he goes back to what he’s doing.

“Fuck, she talks now,” he grunts. “I’m losing my mind. Never used to talk.”

Arya doesn’t know whether to laugh at him or drop her mouth in shock.

“See me often, do you?” she quips, settling on just keeping the conversation going.

“Oh you know,” he replies, waving his hand about as he finally finds what he’s looking for. He throws his sleep clothes on his bed, then starts to unbuckle his belt. Arya’s eyes fall to watch his fingers move. “Here and there. Around and about. More often than the real thing, but that’s not saying much. She’s not talking to me. Or . . . you’re not talking to me. Who knows. Fuck. I’m rambling and you’re not even real.”

With the laces of his jerkin undone, he throws it on the bed on top of his belt, and his undershirt follows quickly after.

“Maybe the real Arya didn’t mean to avoid you,” Arya says softly, dragging her eyes from his bare chest and to his dubious face. “Maybe she’s just so used to people leaving and people dying that she was scared the same would happen to you. And she loves you too much to let that happen.”

Gendry purses his lips, brows pulling down in to a harsh line. “Well maybe she shouldn’t get to make decisions for the two of us,” he replies bitterly. “Maybe she should _talk_ to me about what she’s scared of instead of running away and leaving me in Winterfell thinking she’s going to _die.”_

Arya swallows harshly, biting her tongue to stop from letting her impulsive anger bubble out of her. He’s saying fairly reasonable things, but if she addresses that then she has to admit that she made mistakes and that she hurt him because of it. And if she admits that, then she had to admit that she was _wrong._ Arya isn’t used to being wrong.

“It doesn’t even matter,” Gendry mutters, bending down to take his boots off. “She’s going back North, and I’m going to be a fuckin’ . . . gods. _King of the Stormlands._ That’s fucked. How do I even . . . do you know, the only reason I even said _yes_ to Jon and Sansa was because I know what it’s like to have a bad King. And Sansa said that I can help people this way. I basically believe her, because I saw what she could do for the Northerners when I was in Winterfell – hey, seeing as you’re basically _me,_ do you remember that? Like, when she feeding people and when that storm happened - . . . um, what was I saying?”

Arya takes a trembling breath, biting her lip. He’s just so . . . _adorable._ She’s not sure she’s seen this side of him before, this drunk, earnest, slightly silly Gendry.

“About how you want to help people.”

“Right, right,” Gendry agrees, nodding a few times. He pulls off his other boot, and chucks it at the end of his bed, alongside the other. “I mean, that’s probably true, don’t you think? That I could help people?”

Arya hesitates. She’s never really thought about ruling like that, but she supposes she should have, what with her father and all. That had always been what he’d wanted – to use the power he had to help. She’s always just been so caught up in what her own duties would have been: to wear pretty dresses and keep the house.

But Sansa’s proven that that’s not entirely the case, hasn’t she? Taking care of Winterfell has allowed her to protect the people of Wintertown. And, more than that, Sansa has proven that she need not restrict herself to traditional duties. She and Jon share a lot of the duties of caring for the North, when even her own lady mother had had very little control.

Maybe Arya could . . . help. Take on some queenly duties.

Gods though, if she were to be stuck in Storm’s End forever she thinks she’d likely go mad. Sansa may want nothing more than in stay in her home, but Arya could never be so idle.

She’s getting ahead of herself. Gendry doesn’t even think she’s actually _here._

“Aye, I think you can help people. I’d not really thought you were the type to be a lord but . . . you’re the type to help people. And I think that Sansa is right: you can do that as King.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. And with Davos, I can’t fuck it up too badly, can I?”

Arya bites her lip again. Her silence invites him to continue undressing, and he reaches for the laces of his breeches.

She stands abruptly, reaching out to still his hands.

He gasps at the contact and goes completely still, eyes drawing to hers sharply.

“Do you think . . . do you think there might be room for me to help as well?”

Gendry sucks in another breath, and he hesitantly reaches his hands out to cup her cheeks. His eyes follow the trail of his fingers with wonder, thumbs smoothing against the arc of her cheekbones.

“Arya?” he murmurs. “You’re really here?”

“Aye, I am.”

His eyes fall closes and he drops his forehead to hers. “Do you really want to come south with me?”

“Gendry, you know me,” she says. “You know I could never . . . I’m not a lady. I’m not a _queen._ I don’t . . . gods there’s so much we have to talk about. But I love you, and I want us to spend the rest of our lives side by side. Us against the world.”

“As family.”

Arya licks her lips, resting her hands on Gendry’s hips.

“ _Yes,”_ she whispers. “I want to be your family.”

Gendry’s nose nudges against hers, and then he moves forward to press his lips to hers. It’s so different from all their other kisses, those fiery, pre-battle kisses that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

He moves back, then gives her another chaste kiss, before finally saying, “You already are.”

 

Brienne

She’s tired, weary to the bone, and while the smell of King’s Landing is nothing like it was, on days like today when she’s hardly slept and a pit of worry and guilt is settled in her gut, Brienne thinks that the rot smells worse.

Tired as she may be, though, a smile is always brought to her face when she hears Sansa laugh. And even though Sansa had asked _her_ to come to her tent, Brienne hadn’t just invited herself, she can’t truly feel irritated by the fact the Sansa has someone else in there.

“Jon, _seriously,_ Brienne is coming –“

Brienne doesn’t hear Jon’s reply, but she does hear Sansa laugh again.

Brienne clears her throat loudly, then says, “Your Grace?”

The pair go quiet, then suddenly Jon stumbles out of the tent, buckling his sword belt to his waist, curls unbound and red high on his cheeks.

“Ser Brienne,” he greets.

She nods at him, keeping her face impassive in a deference of respect to him.

He looks relieved, and turns away from her to go about his business for the day.

Brienne clears her throat again, and Jon turns back to her. She points at her own hair, lifting her brow meaningfully. He grins awkwardly, but nods in thanks and turns from her, reaching up to tie his messy curls with a leather cord.

Brienne smothers her smile as Sansa calls for her to enter. They’re her lord and lady, King and Queen, and still she feels like an exasperated mother sometimes.

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa greets, smiling widely. She’s put herself together fairly well, but Brienne can still see that her lips are swollen and her cheeks are red. She averts her eyes, pinning them to the table behind Sansa.

“Your Grace,” Brienne murmurs.

“Not yet,” Sansa reminds her softly, taking a seat and gesturing for Brienne to do the same. “And I’m not sure how many times I must tell you to call me Sansa while we’re alone before you do it.”

Brienne smiles indulgently. “I’m not sure either, Lady Stark.”

Sansa shakes her head, a fond smile on her face, then reaches over to pick up her tea cup.

She takes a long sip, and that’s how Brienne knows that this is going to be a difficult conversation. Brienne isn’t stupid; she knows what this is likely about.

“Our time in King’s Landing is drawing to a close, Brienne,” Sansa starts, as if Brienne needs reminding. “And I . . . well. I suppose there’s no need to speak delicately with you.”

“No, my lady,” Brienne agrees, voice softer than she wishes it were.

“I don’t want you to feel like you must return North with me.”

Brienne takes a deep, shuddering breath. _Duty_ is not what would compel her to return North, though she still feels a strong sense of it quite keenly. No, no, Brienne is finding her situation so difficult because she _adores_ Sansa. She doesn’t want to leave her to the North, perhaps not to see her again, because Brienne counts Sansa as one of her dearest friends. To part with her so permanently now seems . . . it feels unthinkable.

But so does leaving Jaime. She and he have been parted many times over, for many different reasons, but to do so now, when they’ve been open and honest about their desires and expectations . . . to leave now would be to lose any future opportunity, Brienne is aware. Jaime will likely have to marry, produce legitimate heirs. Brienne doesn’t exactly want to marry him and be Queen of the Rock, but she doesn’t want someone else to do it either.

Gods.

If she’s going to choose something for duty, she’d rather it be going North with Sansa. If she’s going with her heart . . . but she can’t decisions based on just that, and neither can Sansa, and neither can Jaime.

“If you’d prefer to go to Casterly Rock with King Jaime, I will not bind you to your vows.”

Sansa calling him _King Jaime_ makes her feel a little sick, honestly.

Sansa sits back, frowning slightly. “Unless you . . . want me to?”

Brienne sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t really . . . know. I don’t . . .” And suddenly it all starts to tumble out. “ _Queen?_ Me? All I ever wanted was to be a knight, to fight alongside equals. But I do love him. And I think he loves me.”

Sansa raises a brow. Brienne sighs.

“He _does_ love me,” she admits. “But I . . . which should I choose? Which is best for me?”

Sansa purses her lips, then takes another drink, eyes drifting away from Brienne.

Finally, she says, “I don’t know. I spoke to Arya on this exact problem, and it felt much easier with her. I don’t know if you should be Queen of the Rock, or be a consort, or just come home with me. But what I do know is that you can do good with either option. And at the very least . . . nothing is permanent. Whichever you decide, you can always change your mind. But I’ll tell you what I told her, and that is that you don’t _have_ to do anything. Damn propriety, damn tradition. We’ve all suffered enough because of those things, haven’t we?”

Brienne blinks, startled at Sansa’s expletive.

“You and Jaime can chart your own path,” Sansa continues. “Or you can return North. The choice is yours, and you’ve proven yourself more than capable to do either.”

Brienne feels her heart flutter at Sansa’s praise. She adores the young woman, and protecting her has been one of the greatest honours of her life, but Brienne see’s Sansa as a friend as well. To know that Sansa thinks Brienne can achieve whatever she wants is heartwarming.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sansa gives her an exasperated sigh, and Brienne smiles slightly in response.

“Your mother would be so proud of you.”

Sansa’s breath hitches at the unexpected mention of her mother. Brienne hadn’t meant to bring Catelyn into the conversation, and is slightly surprised herself, but she knows it to be true nonetheless.

Sansa takes a breath, then turns back to Brienne with a sad smile. “I think she’d be proud of you too.”

 

When Brienne enters Jaime’s tent, she’s surprised to hear that he asks almost the same thing that Sansa did.

“You don’t need to come West because you feel like you have to.”

With him, though, Brienne feels immediately unsure.

“Do you not want me to come?” she asks, and she hates how doubtful she sounds.

He immediately looks horrified. “ _No,_ of course I do! Seven hells, I can’t think of anything I want more.” His eyes widen even more, and he rushes to add, “But that doesn’t mean I want you to feel _pressured_ just because I want –“

He rakes an agitated through his golden hair and shakes his head. “I used to be good at this, you know?” he says wryly, then sighs deeply, shoulders hunching.

Brienne stays quiet, letting him try and work out what he wants to say, and unsure what she’d say herself anyway.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” Jaime says finally. Brienne’s heart thuds so hard in her chest she feels like she’s just run from one end of camp to the other. “But if you chose to come with me, I’ll do anything to make you happy. You can be queen if you want, or you could be master at arms or the castellan or commander of the Kingsguard, _anything._ Anything you want, I will do it, I will give to you, I will make happen.”

“And if I want to go North?”

Jaime struggles to keep his face blank, Brienne can plainly see. “Then you should,” he replies, and bites his lip harshly.

Brienne juts her chin. They’re pretty words, and Brienne has no doubt that he means them, but it is not his devotion to her that she truly doubts. He has proven time and time again what he’s willing to do for her, but his repeated failings are not of a personal nature.

“And if I asked you to abdicate?” she asks. “If I said give the crown to . . . to Lord Damon Marbrand, would you do it?”

Jaime scoffs immediately. “That fool? He hardly knows his head from his –“

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne interrupts, folding her hands together behind her back and clenching her fingers together tightly. “Would you do it?”

Jaime looks over to her wearily, and rubs his brow. “Is this a test?” he asks.

“Yes,” Brienne replies plainly.

“Would I give up the crown to be with you?”

“Yes.”

Jaime sighs and sits, rubbing his brow. He rests his chin on his palm, and stares down at Brienne’s boots.

“If I become King,” Jaime says slowly, blinking heavily, “I will never ride against my bordering Kingdoms, or any other for that matter. I will be able to establish trading routes with the other Kingdoms, and I will mine whatever gold is left under Casterly Rock and spend it on rebuilding and uniting the Kingdom, and I will do whatever I can for the people in King’s Landing whose lives my family helped ruin. I can’t say the same for Damon Marbrand, nor any other Lord in the Westerlands.”

He stands abruptly, rubbing his hand over his golden one, and then lets them both drop to his side. “Did Sansa give you the letter I wrote you?”

Brienne blinks, surprised at the turn in conversation. “Yes,” she answers slowly, unsure what Jaime is trying to say.

“I said that –“ He cuts himself, clearing his throat and turning away from her to take a deep, steadying breath. “I said that if I didn’t go south, I wouldn’t be the man you thought I was. And I believe that.”

He takes another breath, then steps towards her, eyes focusing on hers.

“If I left the fate of the Westerlands in someone else’s hands so that I could be with you, then I wouldn’t be that man, would I? It doesn’t sound like the honorable thing to do.”

Brienne’s eyes close in relief, and she lets a smile play on her lips as she opens them again. Jaime looks unsure at first, but when she nods a smile blooms on his face as well.

“Oh thank gods,” he mutters. “I didn’t know which you wanted me to say, so I figured I should probably just –“

Brienne huffs a laugh, then reaches out to grab the collar of his jerkin.

“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” she says, grinning widely.

He grins as well, a wide, silly smile. “That would likely be because I’ve been a pampered ass my entire life,” he replies. “But perhaps my new master-at-arms will teach me a lesson or two.”

“You don’t think I could be queen?” Brienne challenges, tilting her head.

“You would be a great queen,” Jaime counters. “But then you’d have to replace your hard earned knighthood, and I won’t ask that of you.”

“You’re the one who gave that to me,” Brienne murmurs. She thinks it’s about the nicest, most romantic thing anyone has ever done for her, and just remembering that night almost has in her tears again.

“That makes me the person who knows whether you’d earned it then, doesn’t it?”

She feels her throat well up unexpectedly. “I suppose it does,” she agrees.

“If you wanted to be queen one day, then you will be,” Jaime says firmly. “But you don’t need to make that decision now. I’m just glad you’re coming . . . uh, this does mean you’re coming, right?”

Brienne rolls her eyes, a fond smile spreading across her face.

“You’re an idiot,” she says, leaning forward to press her forehead to his.

“You love it,” Jaime counters softly, his warm breath washing over her face and making her shiver.

“I love _you_ ,” she says, and finally kisses him.

 

Jon

The day they arrive back in Winterfell, Jon can’t quite believe it. When he’d left he hadn’t known whether he would return. Whether he would fall in battle, or perhaps be executed by Daenerys. And then he’d spent weeks locked in a windowless cell, and the hope he’d been clinging to had almost disappeared.

Stepping foot back inside Winterfell feels like a dream. It’s almost more emotional than when he’d first returned after beating Ramsey.

Now he has the death of King’s Landing and the part he played in making that happen weighing down his soul.

He squeezes Sansa’s hand then disappears down into the crypts, while Sansa and Arya take Bran to the godswood.

Jon falls to his knees before his mother and father and weeps.

 

“So, I was thinking,” Sansa starts, rolling from her back and to her side to face him. Jon’s eyes follow the bare curve of her shoulder as the shifting blanket reveals it.

“Mm,” Jon hums, deciding not to deny himself the simple pleasure of tracing his fingers over the soft skin of her décolletage.

“Well, none of the other Kings and Queens will come to our coronation or our wedding, because it’s too far to travel so soon after establishing their seats.”

“Aye, and we’re not going to anyone else’s.”

“Right,” Sansa agrees, “but Arya and Brienne and Davos have come here with us for the wedding and coronation and they can’t stay long. The Lord’s are still here. I don’t see any reason why we should wait to be married.”

Jon’s chest squeezes painfully hard. He swallows, throat tight, and around his heavy tongue he chokes out, “How long?”

She shrugs, reaching out to tuck herself under his chin.

“Tomorrow, if we wanted,” she says, her hot breath fanning over his bare chest.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” he rushes to say, “tomorrow. Gods, I want you to be my wife by law by this time tomorrow.”

She pulls back from him, inspecting him closely. “Truly?”

He almost laughs. “Sansa, after everything we’ve been through, do you truly think it so unlikely that I would want to be your husband as soon as possible?”

The pink that dusts her cheeks is so sweet, and Jon can’t help but cup her neck and press his lips to hers.

“Tomorrow,” he promises against her skin, mouth pulling in to a wide smile.

She laughs, a beautiful, joyful sound that makes a laugh spill from his own mouth.

“Tomorrow,” she replies, smiling as she kisses him again.

He let’s her deepen the kiss, prying his lips open with hers, her fingers eagerly searching over his chest and digging in to his hips.

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, pulling away from her and pushing from the bed.

Her eyes go wide in surprise, and he leans in for another chaste kiss, which quickly gets out of his control when Sansa reaches for his shoulder. The blanket slips further down her chest and when he pulls back again he catches sight of her perfect teats. He groans and braces his hands on either side of her, bending his neck to kiss the valley between her breasts.

“You’re killing me,” he grunts, licking a line up her sweet skin to suck her nipple into his mouth.

Sansa gasps, back arching into him.

“Then why are you – leaving – _oh,_ that feels so good.”

Her nipple pops from his mouth as he rises up again. “If I stay, knowing we’re to be married tomorrow, there’s nothing to stop me from spilling inside you, because who would know? Nothing to stop me, except your honour, and I know myself well enough to know I couldn’t sleep in this bed beside you tonight and _not_ touch you.”

Her fingers rake through his hair desperately, tugging at his curls and guiding him back to her.

“I don’t care, I don’t care,” she mutters, nails scraping down his back. “Don’t you _dare_ leave Jon, I swear to the gods –“

He squeezes her thigh, and pushes from the bed before he changes his mind and succumbs to her begging. He wants to, gods he wants to, it would so easy to fall back in to bed with her – but they’ve waited for so long now that to bed her tonight feels wrong, almost.

So he slips from her chambers as Ghost and the pups watch from by the fire, and Jon tucks himself in to his own bed for the first time in moons.

 

When the sun rises, Jon seeks out Sam because during the night he’d realized that he doesn’t actually know what a wedding entails.

He’s fairly sure that he’d known as a child, likely learning alongside Robb, but it wouldn’t have been practical knowledge, like it would have been for his brothers. As a bastard, Jon would likely not have been married in front of a weirwood – when he’d still harboured dreams of marrying, before he’d decided upon the Watch - and if he’d once known the words he was supposed to say then he doesn’t know them now.

Jon breaks his fast in the Great Hall, leg bouncing beneath the table. It’s fairly full, lords and their advisors still here in Winterfell despite their having been back North for a moon’s turn now.

When they’d returned from King’s Landing, Sansa and Jon had taken command of Winterfell back from Sam, who Sansa had hurriedly left in charge when she’d gone to save Jon. With Sansa and Jon’s return, Sansa had started to oversee the return of smallfolk to their homes while Jon taken command of the rebuild that had slowly been going on while they’d been South.

Many of the men have slowly started to return home as well, the few of them who had escaped the last decade of wars with their lives eager to try and find peace.

Winterfell is still hard pressed to feed its inhabitants, but at least those inhabitants aren’t tens of thousands anymore.

His bowl is cleared as soon as he’s on his feet, and Jon goes straight to the library to find Sam. His old friend is exactly where Jon thought he’d be, sat amongst piles of books; unexpectedly, though, Little Sam is on his father’s lap, bubbling with delight as Sam reads to him from a history book.

Jon smiles at the sight, and quietly makes his way in so as not to startle them.

Sam catches sight of him quickly though, and finishes his sentence before closing the book and standing to greet Jon.

“Your Grace,” Sam says, smiling widely.

“Sam.” Jon doesn’t bother correcting Sam’s title, because he knows the other man is using it due to the novelty of it. Sam is just as delighted about Northern independence as the Starks. “Little Sam’s with you today?”

“The queen requested Gilly’s assistance in an important task today. She said they only have until this evening to complete it, so no distractions. Hence –“ Sam lifts his son up, and Little Sam perches his booted feet on Sam’s knee, giggling with delight as he tries to stretch of Sam’s grasp. “Wolkan’s let me have the day off so I can take care of Little Sam.”

“Did Gilly say what the task was?” Jon questions, wondering what Sansa could want done so immediately.

Sam shrugs. “Queen Sansa didn’t say, but she and Gilly spent a lot of time sewing together before the wars so I imagine it has something to do with that.”

Oh. _Oh._ Before this evening, a sewing task? A cloak. Maybe a dress.

A stupid grin spreads across Jon’s face at the thought.

Sam scrunches his brows at him. “What’s that face for?”

“Sansa and I are getting married tonight,” Jon reveals, the smile still spread across his face.

Sam laughs in delight, clapping his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Jon. I’m happy for you.”

“I can’t quite believe it,” Jon admits. “That after everything we’ve finally got the chance to . . . ah, anyway Sam, I came because I’ve realized that I don’t quite know what a wedding entails and I hardly want to make a fool of myself. Or Sansa, for that matter.”

“Oh, of course. Here, hold Little Sam, I’ll get the book.”

Jon finds the toddler deposited in his lap before he can so much as agree, and suddenly he’s staring in to Little Sam’s eyes as the child reaches out to run his tiny fingers over Jon’s beard.

Little Sam gasps in delight, using his other hand to touch his own chin. He frowns at finding his own smooth face, but is instantly distracted by moving his hand from his own face and to Jon’s, both of his hands now running over the coarse hair lining Jon’s jaw. Little Sam laughs and bounces himself on Jon’s lap, and Jon immediately grasps his legs to make sure he doesn’t fall.

He can hear Sam’s rummaging, talking to Jon as he does, but Jon pays him little mind. His attention is completely stolen by the child in his lap, who has expanded his exploration of Jon to the scars lining his eyes, his little fingers running from top to bottom. Little Sam frowns, then leans forward to press a delicate kiss to each one.

Jon’s throat unexpectedly burns as Little Sam murmurs, “Better now.”

“Aye,” Jon murmurs. “Better now. Thank you.”

Little Sam grins, then pats the top of Jon’s head, before finally finding the ultimate distraction in the furs across Jon’s shoulders. His little fingers grab and pull and smooth through the fur, before he presses his face against them, giggling with happiness as he nuzzles his cheek into them, arms slung loosely around Jon’s neck.

Sam returns, book in hand, and instead of apologizing and taking the child back like Jon expected, he instead just smiles and sits beside the pair.

“Is it alright?” Sam’s asks as he sits back down, jutting his chin at Little Sam.

“Aye, it’s alright,” Jon responds, resting the crook of his arm under Little Sam’s legs so the child can lay against his chest comfortably.

Sam doesn’t say anything more, instead spreading the book on tabletop.

 

Jon’s knees feel weak as he waits by the weirwood.

Bran sits much more patiently, and those gathered murmur amongst themselves as they all wait for Sansa. The wolves are nowhere to be seen, but likely Ghost has lead the four of them from the castle walls to try and hunt. He’s been beginning to teach them recently, and their disappearance from the castle at around this time every day has started to become easily anticipated.

Jon feels sick to his stomach, but it isn’t nerves that make it so; instead it’s anticipation that’s making his fingers twitch and his toes wiggle in his boots. He wants her here _now_ so they can say their vows and he can spend the rest of his life calling Sansa wife.

Bran shifts in his chair, and Jon looks down at him.

“I wish our family were here.”

For the second time that day, Jon can hardly speak around the lump in his throat.

“Do you think they’d be happy for us?” Jon asks, voice barely above a whisper. He’d like to think they would be, but his sins weigh so heavily on him now that he finds it hard to believe that he’d deserve their blessings.

“Rickon would just be happy for the feast, I think,” Bran replies, startling a laugh from Jon. Aye, Jon imagines he would. “Robb would be glad that he could lawfully call you brother. Father would be happy that Sansa had found someone brave, gentle and strong.”

Jon’s chest throbs at the though. Sansa’s quiet admission to him of what their father had once told Sansa he’d desired for her has continually inspired a mixture of pride and grief, and it does no less now as he waits to marry her.

“And Lady Catelyn?” Jon questions, unsure he wants to know the answer but asking anyway. He can imagine her scowl from beyond the grave, her tone as she would say _see, Ned, I always told you he would take what is rightfully Robb’s_ and the fearsome anger she would show over his marrying her eldest daughter: _it’s not enough he’s stolen Robb’s birthright but he’s stealing my daughter as well?_

No. That’s too harsh. Lady Catelyn may have been indifferent, cold, but she was never cruel. He may never have been a _Stark,_ but she’d not tossed him from Winterfell’s walls like she could have. Jon isn’t sure what he’d do if _Sansa_ returned with a babe that wasn’t his, but that’s something Jon has only been able to realize recently.

It wasn’t her fault that Ned never told her he’d not been unfaithful, and it wasn’t her fault she had seen Jon every day of her life and never been able to forget what she thought was the truth.

It isn’t forgiveness Jon has reached, but a neutrality that never existed before has ebbed away his anger.

“I think mother would be . . .” Bran goes quiet for a long moment, and Jon winces. Perhaps Catelyn wouldn’t have reached the same level of ambivalence that Jon has. “If she had known what had befallen Sansa, if she knew the truth of your parentage . . . I think she’d be happiest of all. To know that Sansa had found someone who exists not to take her birthright, but to protect her from those that would - . . . There was nothing our mother wanted more than for us to be safe and happy in a world that seeks to destroy safety and happiness.”

Jon swallows harshly, looking away from Bran to stare in to the weeping face of the weirwood. A breeze ruffles through the leaves, the hem of his Stark cloak blowing against the snow.

Perhaps the Stark’s truly would give their blessing.

The meadow goes quiet, a hush befalling the crowd. Jon turns, and at the end of aisle stands Sansa, wearing a beautiful blue dress, her Stark cloak on her shoulders, and her red hair piled atop her head. Sansa smiles at him, a radiant smile, and the wind blows through the godswood again, snow flurrying gently up and around them, settling onto Sansa’s hair like a crown.

Perhaps the Starks already have.

Jon’s fingers itch to take Sansa’s hand as she reaches him, but he darts his eyes over to Sam who smiles encouragingly, and Jon stills his impulses.

With the sun dipping below the horizon, Bran starts the ceremony.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

Arya, holding Sansa’s hand in the crook of her arm, says, “Sansa, of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jon steps forward, still wishing he could take her hand. “Jon Snow, First of his Name, King in the North and Protector of the Realm. Who gives her?”

“Arya, of House Stark, who is her sister.”

“Lady Sansa,” Bran says, “do you take this man?”

Sansa smiles, and the breath is completely knocked from his lungs.

“I take this man.”

Finally, _finally,_ Jon can reach out. Arya looks up at Sansa, and brings her sister’s hand to her mouth to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

Jon smiles, as does Sansa, and then Arya passes Sansa’s hand over to Jon. He slides his fingers through hers immediately, and her thumb smooths over his gloved palm. They kneel before the Heart Tree, the snow of the godswood cold against his knees even through his breeches.

 _Thank you,_ Jon prays, _for finally letting me love her. I’ll honour this gift by loving her until my final breath._

They stand together, hands clasped. They’d agreed that he wouldn’t cloak her, and she wouldn’t cloak him, so instead he grips her waist and kisses her for all to see.

There’s polite applause around them, and, mindful of their audience, he gives her another quick kiss and then turns them to the crowd, finally as husband and wife.

 

The feast, despite having only been organized today and being made with minimal food, is still riotous and joyful. Smallfolk, Lords and Free Folk mingle amongst each other, and the band plays song after song in the corner of the room.

Jon is currently dancing wildly with Tormund – dancing, of course, being an overstatement, because mostly they’re just clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the beat – who had dragged Jon from his chair and said he wanted one last night with his little crow before he handed him over to his new wife.

Sansa had laughed and waved her hand in encouragement, and Jon can see her crown of red hair somewhere on the opposite side of the Hall now. He’s had a little bit to drink, but nothing outrageous, and nothing that might cloud his judgment nor his memory. Enough to loosen the tension in his shoulders, but the feast is not what Jon is looking forward to most this evening.

He catches sight of Sansa again, and wonders whether enough time has finally passed for him to steal her away to their chambers.

 _Their_ chambers.

Gods.

Jon is fairly sure he’s not smiled as much in his entire life as he has tonight, and his cheeks burn as the evidence of his joy.

With Tormund distracted by a woman that sidles up to his side, Jon slips through the crowd and to Sansa’s side. He rests his hand on her waist, and she turns to him, grinning widely.

“Did you have fun with Tormund?” Sansa asks, slinging her arms around his neck.

He kisses her, then moves his mouth to her ear to whisper, “Not as much fun as I plan to have with you.”

She tugs at the hair at his nape, and breathlessly replies, “Wait are we waiting for then?”

Jon needs no further encouragement. He doesn’t announce their departure to the Hall, loathe to bring attention to them, but he’s sure that they’ll be amused when the participants declare their intentions for a bedding ceremony to find the pair already gone.

He leads her through the halls of their castle, managing to restrain himself enough to only push Sansa up against the wall and kiss her senseless three times. He fumbles with the lock on their door until Sansa giggles and takes the key from him and unlocks their chambers herself.

With the door closed behind them, Jon relaxes and swears to take his time. He’s going to make this night unforgettable, but he wants her to be so comfortable with him that she’s anticipating the moment he’ll finally slide inside her as much as he is.

Jon leans his back against the door, dragging Sansa to him and lining her body against his; he slots a knee between her legs and slants his mouth over her neck, feathering his lips over her soft skin. The strong scent of cinnamon invades his nose, and Jon inhales deeply, eyes fluttering closed at the comforting smell.

“I’m a little nervous,” Sansa admits as her hands settle at his hips.

He pulls from her neck, trying to still his desperately roaming hands into something gentler.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Jon promises. “We don’t have to do anything more than we’ve already done. Or – we don’t even have to do that.”

She bites her lips, forehead creasing and says, “No, I – I think I want to. But you’d stop, wouldn’t you? If I asked?”

He doesn’t even need to think. “ _Of course,_ Sansa, of course. At any point. No matter the reason. You tell me to stop, and I will.”

Sansa leans in to him again, lips brushing against his jaw, and says, “Then take me to bed, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t follow her command immediately. Instead he runs his knuckles down her waist to her hips, bunching her dress in his fists.

“I like this dress,” he murmurs, nosing her temple.

“I didn’t have much time,” she responds, and he can hear her breathlessness. Jon continues his soft exploration of her, curving his palm over her bottom and down to her thighs, thumbs circling her through the dress. “There was – the bottom of it is from the – victory feast, and the light blue is spare from my – coronation dress.”

Jon hums against her, slowly dragging her skirts up her thighs.

“There’s to be another dress?” he asks, darting his tongue out to lick up her throat.

Sansa is melting snow in his arm, leaning into him as he reduces her to a quivering mess with nothing but his gentle touch.

“There’s a – it’s a – “

He pushes the underclothes she’s wearing to the side, dipping his fingers between her folds and stealing her gasp into his own mouth.

“Aye?” he encourages, all the while circling her slick heat. “A coronation dress? Light blue, like this?”

Sansa grip clenches in his furs, and on a ragged breath she moans, “Stop teasing me, _please.”_

Jon drops his hands from her, skirts falling to the ground around her ankles.

“No, what are you –“

He takes her hand and leads her through their solar and into their bedchambers.

“I thought you wanted me to stop teasing?” he grins, turning his head back to wink clumsily at her.

Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is pulled loose, and Jon absolutely cannot wait to spread her out on their bed.

Jon encourages her on to the furs then kneels before her, hitching her calves on his shoulders and lowering himself to sup on her cunt. Her soft cries fill the room as her legs clamp over his ears, and Jon decides there is nothing in the world he enjoys more than bringing Sansa to peak with his tongue. The sound, the taste, the smell; all of it is more glorious than any other achievement he has made or title he has been given. He would happily spend his every waking moment as a supplicant on his knees before her if it meant that is what he would be doing while there.

Her walls flutter as she peaks, and Jon’s cock aches with the thought that soon he might finally feel such a sensation around his length.

“I want you,” Sansa gasps, chest heaving, “all of you.”

He rises from the bed, reaching up to his cloak to discard it. Sansa follows him up, her trembling fingers attempting to loosen the laces of his leathers.

Jon catches her hands in his, lifting them to press gentle kisses to each of her knuckles.

“We don’t have to,” he reminds her, holding her shaking hands to his heart.

“I _want_ to,” she promises. “We’ll go slowly though?”

“As slow as you need,” he vows.

Jon guides her hands back to his laces, stilling the tremor in her hands each time she fumbles, interlocking their fingers until each knot is untied. When his leathers are on the ground, he pulls his undershirt over his head and drops it at the foot of the bed.

Sansa stands as well and turns her back to him.

“Will you undo your hair?” Jon asks as he reaches up to unlace her dress.

She wordlessly acquiesces, each tendril of hair falling over her shoulder as she removes the pins. Jon is entranced by the sight of the spilling locks, and when he’s finally through with removing her dress he parts the hair at the nape of her neck so he can kiss her there, nose buried in the sweet scent of her hair.

“I love you,” he whispers against her skin, hands circling her stomach to press her back against him.

His hard cock nestles into her arse, and he doesn’t quite manage to stifle a whimper. Sansa grinds back into him and his teeth scrape her spine before he can stop, but it only encourages Sansa to do it again.

Jon grips her hips, spinning her around to catch her mouth in a kiss. When she’s shuddering under his touch, when each breath she draws is a hitched whimper, when her nails are dragging over his skin, Jon encourages her back on to the bed.

The sight of her laid out for him prompts a curse under his breath that is mostly unintentional, but he’s not surprised at it. He can’t control his response to her, likely not even if he tried. He can still his hands, but he can’t hold in his gasps.

Jon isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s spent a significant amount of time thinking about this moment, both when he’d been in Winterfell with her and they’d stolen time in dark corners, and also when he’d left her to fight (before those times, even, before they’d confessed their feelings, when the only way he could stay his desire was to let it unfurl in the confines of his bedroom, when he could spill on his stomach while breathing his sister’s name in to his pillow and no one would be any the wiser).

Now that they’re finally here, Jon knows exactly what he’s going to do.

Jon positions himself beside her, Sansa’s eyes following his movements all the while. There’s a pull of confusion between her brows, but he doesn’t mind, and when he guides her to sit atop him the confusion clears into something like anticipation.

“You’re still alright?” he murmurs, eyes caught on the red that’s spread over her chest.

“Yes,” she responds, biting her lip. “And you?”

“Gods Sansa, you have no idea how much I want you.”

Sansa takes his length in hand, with slightly more hesitance than usual, and Jon fists the fur by his sides instead of her thighs like he wants to.

When Sansa finally sinks down onto him a ragged groan rips from his throat while his eyes actually roll back from the pleasure of it.

She’s so hot and wet and _tight_ and Jon’s not sure he’d ever felt something so intensely in his life. She’s taken him in hand many times at this point, into her mouth enough times as well, but this is something else entirely.

 _Gods,_ he needs to get himself under control or he’ll spill inside her immediately like a greenboy.

Sansa breathes shallowly above him, her eyes closed as well, but he can’t tell if she’s overwhelmed in a good or bad way.

“Sansa, my love,” Jon encourages, holding her waist as he sits up, cradling her hips to his.

Her eyes open, bright and wide, and then she rolls her hips and Jon curses again, hands flying from her body to tighten back in to the furs because he doesn’t want to hurt her but _gods_ he needs to hold something.

Sansa leans forward, pressing her chest entirely to his, so tightly that they have to alternate their breathing as her lips brush over his neck. She rises on to her knees, his length pulling from her sweet cunt, and then she sinks back down on to him while he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Gods Sansa, you feel so good,” he mutters, sucking the skin above her collarbone. “I can’t believe you’re finally my wife, I love you so much.”

His sweet praise encourages her, and she continues to rise up and sink back down, setting a gentle and consistent pace and all the while he whispers into her ear how good she’s doing, how much he loves her, how perfect her cunt feels around him.

Their pace is slow enough that it takes some time to build up, but Jon has no qualms about that; eventually, though, her breathing changes from uneven into hitched gasps, then into quiet keens, and finally into moans of his name, which he loves the most.

“Jon, I don’t think I can – I can’t keep –“

“That’s okay sweetheart, can I go on top?”

He expects her to hesitate, but instead her teeth catch on his jaw as she moans, “Yes, please, Jon, gods, _please.”_

Keeping their bodies still so tightly pressed, he maneuvers them around, settling in to the cradle of her thighs, propped up on an elbow. Sansa hooks her knees about his waist, heels digging in to his arse.

Jon takes one of her hands, interlocking their fingers together and resting their hands on the pillow above her head.

Sansa leans up to kiss his chin, and Jon moves to catch her lips in a kiss. He keeps it slow and gentle, like their love making, but eventually Sansa parts from him to whisper into his mouth, “I need more Jon, _please.”_

He doesn’t want to go too fast just yet, won’t drive into like he so easily could, and instead releases her hand so he snake it between them and rub her clit in wide circles at the same pace as his thrusts.

One of her hands rakes between his shoulder blades and the other tugs at his hair, and Sansa curls up and in to him as she peaks, her mouth open and hot and panting his name into his shoulder as her walls flutter around him. He needs no further encouragement, the slow pace no hindrance on his peak because, frankly, he’s been drying his damndest to hold off this whole time.

He spills deep inside her, hips stuttering, biting down on her earlobe as his spine tingles with pleasure. He takes a few deep, bracing breaths, then rolls off her.

Sansa doesn’t let him go far, nuzzling in to his chest and slinging her wrist over his waist.

“That was . . .”

“It was fucking spectacular,” Jon supplies, kissing the top of her head.

“It was perfect,” Sansa agrees, and he can feel her smile. “Do you think it’s too late to have a bath though?”

Jon huffs a laugh, then takes her chin in his grasp, giving her a deep and searing kiss, much more heated than any other they’ve shared tonight.

“If you think I’m done with you tonight,” he grunts, reaching down between them to feel the mix of her release and his seed on her thighs, “then you’re sorely mistaken.”

 

Sansa

She hasn’t seen Jon all morning, and she’s itching to. Sansa knows the exact design of the crowns they commissioned, of the leathers Jon’s to wear today, of the dress that is still painstakingly being put on her, and there’s so much anticipation to stand beside him in front of their people today that she feels so keenly like she _must_ see him.

“I can’t believe I’m wearing a dress,” Arya mutters from where maids help her in to her own dress.

“I didn’t ask you to,” Sansa reminds her, lifting her arm so her handmaiden can fit the draping sleeve up.

“This was my coronation gift to you,” Arya declares, “but I think I should have just gone to Wintertown and bought you something like a normal person.”

Sansa stifles a laugh, then says, “I had them sew you some pockets. And the waist is cinched, you’ll easily be able to belt Needle on.”

Arya’s face lights up in delight as she discovers the pockets Sansa had added. “Does _your_ dress have pockets? This is useful. All dresses should have pockets. I’d be much more likely to wear them then.”

Sansa raises a disbelieving brow, and Arya scoffs a laugh.

“Yeah you’re right, they’re still awful.”

Sansa hums, then lifts her other arm, wondering how much longer. The dress is elaborate, certainly, Tully blue and beautifully embroidered with tributes to her family, but she’s been here almost an hour and even she’s starting to feel restless.

She understands the importance of a coronation, she does, but it’s been two moons since she and Jon stepped back in to Winterfell and the Northern Lords feel to their knees and proclaimed them King and Queen. She’s got things to do, petitions to answer, letters to write, grain stores to ration. Winter still rages, mild as it may be, and this whole thing feel like a waste of her day.

If young Sansa could see her now. Wishing for her coronation day to be over? Her childhood self would rebel at the thought.

But she’s learnt her lessons, bore her hardships, and played the game. Sansa knows now there are more important things than a coronation.

“Your Grace,” the handmaidens murmur, dipping into curtsey’s before departing.

Arya appears before her, smiling softly.

“You look lovely, Sansa.”

Sansa holds out her hand, and Arya takes it easily, and together they walk through Winterfell’s halls, Brienne at her back.

Jon and Davos wait outside the doors in the Hall, and Jon’s dumbstruck expression is enough to lift any sour mood that’s befallen her.

Sansa takes a deep breath, releasing Arya’s hand to take Jon’s.

“This is surreal,” Sansa tells him.

Jon squeezes her hand. “Aye, it is. Finishing what Robb started.”

Sansa nods firmly. “We do his memory justice today.”

Davos passes the pillow with the two crowns atop it to Arya, and then he and Brienne open the doors.

Brienne and Davos lead their small procession through the Hall.

They first pass by the smallfolk from Wintertown and the workers of Winterfell, and then by the Lords of North, and some from the Riverlands and the Vale, and as she and Jon make their way through the people drop to their knees for them.

For how unsure she was earlier, now she feels nothing but pride. Sansa holds her head high, honored to have been part of bringing justice to the North.

Independence has cost many lives, but she vows that from today it will cost no more.

Bran awaits them at the dais, smiling softly and knowingly. Arya places the pillow of crowns upon his lap, and then steps down to join Brienne and Davos, who have taken their places in the crowd.

Sansa takes a deep breath, looking up to Jon.

He smiles at her, as proud as she is to have fought so hard and come out with what they were fighting _for,_ and suddenly Queenship doesn’t seem so difficult anymore.

Yes, it will be petitions and letters and problems that seem to have no solution, but her role is protect her people as best she can; and Sansa thinks that she knows a thing or two about protection.

Sansa curtsey’s lowly before Bran, dipping her head so that he can place her crown atop her head. The direwolves are heavy as they sit atop her brow, but Sansa can handle it.

Jon bows next, and his matching crown sits beautifully amongst his dark curls.

“All Hail the King and Queen in the North!” Bran declares loudly, hands aloft.

Sansa and Jon turn to their people as they raise their swords.

“All Hail!” they shout back. “The King and Queen in the North! The King and Queen in the North!”

Sansa looks amongst the crowd, the faces she knows, the faces she doesn’t, the people who shout for she and Jon’s good health and long lives, her dearest friends and her found family.

This next part of her life she will get to share with those she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is a little surprise, and then the final chapter will be the epilogue. see you all soon <3


	11. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha and ya'll thought last chapter was sweet. 
> 
> just you WAIT. 
> 
> we're almost finished with this story, so i just wanted to stay that i'm so grateful that ya'll have stuck with me and this story this whole time. it's been a long journey, and this the longest story i've ever written, so all of your support has meant the absolute world to me. truly, i can't thank everyone enough. 
> 
> xx

Eighteen Moons After the Separation of Kingdoms

 

KINGDOM OF THE ROCK

Brienne sighs as she pulls the leather through the buckle of her sword belt, muscles aching.

She’s spent a hard day training young boys and girls today, after very little sleep the night before. She’s entirely ready to call for a bath and sooth her sore muscles while she waits for Jaime to finish with his duties for the day.

Just as Pod starts to help her remove her armour, there’s a knock on her solar door.

Pod answers, despite Brienne’s deep sigh.

“The King requests the presence of his small council,” the squire at the door relates.

Pod tells him that Brienne will be there shortly, then turns back to her.

She’s beyond tired today, and Brienne swears that if Jaime is just saying _small council_ so that he can get her alone and finish what was interrupted between them this morning, she might just strangle him.

Pod refastens what armour he’d loosened, and gives her a tight smile as he hands her back Oathkeeper.

“I’ll have a bath drawn for you while you’re there,” he says warmly.

“Thank you, Podrick,” she says, truly grateful.

Brienne makes her way through the walls of Casterly Rock and towards the small council chambers. The castle is busy, bustling with workers and maids and lords here to petition, but it isn’t bright and welcoming.

Winter may be mild, but the Rock struggles through it, having been unprepared to be an independent Kingdom going into winter. While it may once have been provided for from the coffers of the crown, the Lannisters secretly propping up the economy of their home, it has no such cushion now. Food only gets scarcer and scarcer upon Westeros, and while most Kingdoms have turned to Essos to provide grain, the Rock is farthest from it, and it’s only ports are on the western side of the continent.

Jaime has done his best to help who he can, opening his doors to those who need it most in much the same manner Sansa had, but he cannot save everyone and the past eighteen moons have weighed heavily on him.

Brienne knocks upon the small council chamber doors, then lets herself in. The rest of the council are already there, his Masters of Coin, and Laws, and the Maester. He’s yet to appoint a Hand, no one yet having earned his trust for such a position, but Brienne tries to give her advice sagely enough.

“Ah, my Master at Arms,” Jaime grins. She’s used to such pleasant expressions from him when she enters a room, soft smiles and even softer kisses usually greeting her, but there’s something different about him today. He looks lighter, like his smile is truly reaching his eyes.

Brienne takes a seat in the chair beside Jaime, murmuring, “Your Grace,” as she does so.

“My apologies for calling a meeting at this time of day, and at such short notice,” Jaime starts. Brienne can see how eager he is, and she can’t help but wonder why. The last time she saw him like this was when Joanna said her first word, and Jaime had walked the halls of his castle and told every person passing by that his daughter’s first word was _papa._ She wonders if he’s gathered them all here to tell them something similar. She wouldn’t put it past him, honestly, his enthusiasm for Joanna second to none. “But Maester Roland has just given me fantastic news, I wanted to share it with you all right away.”

The group all turns to the maester, though Brienne’s gaze lingers on Jaime for a moment.

He smiles so widely at her that her heart aches. He’s hardly been inattentive to her since she joined him at the Rock, and certainly he has thus far upheld his promise to love her thoroughly, but he’s been so weighed down for so long now that she’s forgotten what he looked like when he didn’t have the crease of worry between his brows.

She smiles back at him, then turns to maester Roland.

“A white raven came from the Citadel this afternoon,” Roland announces. Brienne’s breath lodges in her throat. “Spring has arrived.”

_Finally._

 

KINGDOM OF THE RIVERLANDS

Edmure likes to think that he’s doing a good job of running his new Kingdom.

It’s hard work, harder than he anticipated, and much less rewarding than he’d always imagined. But he’s not been plagued with reports of masses of his people freezing or starving to death, and for how unprepared he’d been for winter he thinks that he’s mostly doing well enough.

The northern parts of his Kingdom are still stuck under feet of snow, but the most southerly points have not been so deeply covered. Game is starting to become scarcer, over-hunted as the southern territories have become, but thus far it hasn’t been _too_ difficult for hunting parties down south. The northern parts are another matter entirely.

He’d been so overwhelmed on caring for his northern borders that he entreated with his niece early in winter, who had travelled to him with her husband soon after their coronation.

King Jon had seen to Edmure’s Kingdom’s defenses kindly and efficiently, and while Edmure had initially chafed at the thought that the young man would do so, he’d been reminded by his wife, Roslin, what had happened when he’d not listened to Jon’s predecessor, King Robb.

Queen Sansa had very generously shared her secrets on who she traded with for food, and while Edmure is sure that she had not told them _all_ her tricks, she’d certainly given both he and Roslin enough information so as to keep their people alive through winter thus far.

His niece and nephew-in-law had departed a fortnight after they’d arrived, informing him that they were stopping at Greywater Watch on their return to the North.

“Lord Reed became a close confidant during the Last War,” Sansa had told him when he’d expressed ambivalence on their decision. “And in any case, the Lady Meera is returning to Winterfell with us.”

“Lady Meera?” Edmure questioned, perplexed. “What ever for?”

Sansa had just smiled her knowing smile, and departed from her mother’s home with sad eyes brightened only by her husband’s proffered arm.

Edmure still isn’t entirely sure why Meera had gone north, but he knows she’s not yet returned.

Edmure is interrupted from his thoughts by a knock on his door.

“Enter,” he calls, dropping the parchment he’s been looking at for several minutes to no avail.

Maester Olyver enters, a pleased smiled on his face.

“Your Grace,” Olyver greets, extending his hand to pass over the scroll he had brought. “A white raven. From the Citadel.”

Relief wells up in him so viscerally that he closes his eyes, fighting the absurd urge to cry.

“Spring is here?” Edmure asks finally, looking down to the scroll.

“Aye, Your Grace,” Olyver confirms, and Edmure can hear his joy reflected in his maester. “Spring is here.”

 

KINGDOM OF THE MOUNTAIN AND THE VALE

Yohn Royce misses Sansa Stark. Her even temper, her passion, her big heart . . . Yohn has been able to craft Robin Arryn’s temperament into something resembling Sansa’s, but it isn’t the same.

Yohn doesn’t hold the same level of trust that Robin has mistakenly gifted Littlefinger, but he does well enough with what he has.

Still. It had been nicer with Sansa.

Robin’s disinterest with ruling has only ebbed somewhat, and he still struggles to hold any weapon with use. In all truthfulness, though, Yohn is glad that his King isn’t as sickly a man as he was a boy. Without an heir, the Vale would surely be thrown into tumult if Robin were to pass, and while Yohn _might_ be able to convince everyone the best path would be to let the North annex the Vale, the stress of it would likely also send him to an early grave.

This situation isn’t perfect, but it’s not terrible, either.

“When will I get to use a _real_ sword?” Robin asks, dropping his wooden sword to the ground.

Yohn’s eye twitches, but he keeps his voice even as he responds, “Soon, Your Grace. You’ve improved greatly.”

Which isn’t a lie, because the young King is certainly much better than when he first picked up his practice sword, but he’s not great, either. Yohn wouldn’t even think to put a real sword in the hand of a boy who has as poor skills as Robin does.

Robin sighs, then leans down to pick up his discarded practice stick. At least he’s not muttering about how he’s King and how Yohn should do what he tells him to. Yohn has been able to train that out of him, at least.

Their practice session is interrupted by the arrival of maester Eldric.

Robin eagarly takes the opportunity to hand his sword to Yohn, who takes it with a thin press of his lips.

“From the Citadel,” Eldric says, while Robin unwinds the scroll. “A white raven.”

Yohn huffs in delight, a wide smile spreading across his face for the first time in moons.

“This is good news, then?” Robin asks, letting the scroll wind back up without truly reading it.

Yohn doesn’t even mind. He’s too happy now. They’ve been struggling through winter for too long now, and while Robin has vaguely tried to help, most of that responsibility has fallen upon his small council’s shoulders, spearheaded by Yohn himself.

Perhaps now he might get to sleep through the night.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Yohn says, smiling widely. “This is fantastic news.”

 

KINGDOM OF THE ISLES

Yara looks upon the parchment with critical eyes, unsure.

“He looks old,” Yara finally decides. “He may have been burdened, but he was still strong. You’ve made him look weak.”

The artist doesn’t quiet tremble, but he certainly looks unconvinced.

“Did you not hear me?” Yara demands. “Theon was my brother. I’ll have him commemorated the way I want. Start over, or I’ll commission someone else.”

The artist nods in agreement, and slips the sketch that will turn into a painting into a leather bound folder. He departs from the room just as Yara’s maester enters, scroll in hand.

Yara sighs with annoyance. “Is that the Starks _again?”_ she asks, unable to keep her irritation from her voice as she sits down at her desk, rubbing her brow. “I sent a raven yesterday agreeing to the increased trade, but I won’t agree to more. We don’t have enough people to use their wood to build boats fast enough, and I can hardly supply them with the required fish _now._ And I have hardly enough gold to supplement payment after the Peace Accord stopped our pillaging. No, I won’t agree to another increase, Cerrick.”

Maester Cerrick shakes his head. “No, it isn’t from the Starks, Your Grace,” he says. “From the Citadel. A white raven.”

Yara pauses, looking up at him. A smile spreads across her face. “Well thank the gods.”

 

KINGDOM OF THE REACH

Alerie Tyrell is a politically savvy woman, despite making some . . . outrageous claims about Sansa Stark’s ability to keep Cersei alive.

She hadn’t learnt much about politics growing up, the Hightower’s preferring to teach their daughters about running a Keep and pleasing their husbands, but once she’d married Mace and become a Tyrell, Olenna had taken her under her wing and whispered in her ear all she’d known. And Alerie had dutifully passed such invaluable knowledge on to both Lynesse and her daughter, Margaery.

But knowing how to discover who a man is in order to make him do her bidding is of no use to her in winter. Being Queen of the Reach is not as easy as it would have been only ten years ago, or perhaps even five.

Now Highgarden has been pilfered for all it’s worth, and while the other castles of the Reach had had grain stored for winter, organizing an equal distribution of it with bickering and hungry Lords is difficult. The Reach has never been known for its selflessness, and while Alerie may once have been the same, being Queen has unexpectedly softened what the Reach initially hardened.

Likely that’s been Lynesse’s doing, her sister having never quite taken to the game of politics like Alerie had. Lynesse is Alerie’s Hand now, and the Queenship is likely more stressful for Lynesse than it is Alerie.

“How is Marq?” Alerie asks, taking a sip of her tea.

“I think he’d prefer to be at Hightower,” Lynesse admits. “But that’s too bad for him, I suppose. I’m needed here, not there, and until he gets me with child he’ll have to stay with me.”

“Oh, what a hardship for him,” Alerie says dryly, rolling her eyes.

Lynesse grins into her teacup. “Truly. He was better as paramour than a husband, but he’s no Mormont.”

Alerie scoffs. “But who isn’t?”

Lynesse hums in agreement, then sets down her cup. “Now, as fun as it is to discuss the men in our lives, I’m unfortunately here to discuss what I’ve learnt of our stores.”

Alerie sighs, but nods Lynesse on.

“Goldengrove and Bitterbridge have written and requested grain, and I’ve allocated a small ration to them, but I doubt we can supply them for longer than three moons. I think it’s time we write Essos as well, Alerie.”

“You know I don’t want to do that.”

“This is about more than your pride now, Alerie,” Lynesse says, irritation leaking into her voice. “It doesn’t matter if you usually provide grain to the continent, the fact is that it’s _winter,_ and we must do what –“

A knock on the door makes Lynesse snap her mouth shut.

“Come in,” Alerie calls, trying to keep her own frustration from her voice.

Maester Elwood enters, face solemn as always.

Alerie flicks her head, and he bends down to her ear, whispering the news he’s brought.

Alerie can’t help the smug smile that lifts her face as she locks eyes with her sister.

Maester Elwood departs, and Alerie leaves Lynesse in suspense for only a few moments.

“No need to write Essos, sister dear,” Alerie says. “Write out and tell our farmers to start planting their seeds.”

“The ground is still frozen solid, Alerie, _what_ –“

“A white raven from the Citadel. Spring is here.”

 

KINGDOM OF THE STORMLANDS AND THE CROWNLANDS

Arya leads her charges through the forest, the kids chirping with excitement even after she’s cautioned them to be especially quiet.

Lucky enough they’re not _actually_ hunting game, because if they were Arya is sure that they’d go hungry. Really they’re just here for a bit of fun, because the kids had begged her to take them out before she left for the North.

She’s got a clearing picked out for where they’ll camp for the night, and then she’ll take the children back to Storm’s End on the morrow.

“Jimmy!” Arya whispers, catching sight of him climbing up a tree. He’s the youngest of the orphans she’s taken under her wing, and he’s been difficult to contain. But Arya doesn’t mind. She understands his restlessness; she just needs to find a way to channel it. “Climb a bit higher, would you? See if you can spot any game?”

Arya is under no impressions that he will see anything, and likely he’s just going to get dirty, but she’s not one to punish people for something that will cause no harm.

Jimmy climbs up, while the other kids around her titter with excitement, urging Jimmy to go higher and higher.

Arya starts to get a little unsure as he gets higher, because she remembers Bran’s proclivity all too well.

“Be careful up there!” she calls out, and promptly rolls her eyes at how much like her mother she sounds.

“I’m okay!” Jimmy calls back, a big grin on his face.

As she’d known he wouldn’t, Jimmy comes back down with a big pout on his face, declaring he couldn’t see anything. Arya pats him on the shoulder and tells him not to worry, and then raises Needle high into the air and shouts for all her brave soldiers to follow their commander to their camp for the night.

She teaches them how to pitch tents, and how to start fires, and they all gather around it to watch her cook the meat she’d brought and listen to her tell them story after story.

When morning comes, Arya is more exhausting than when she’d gone to bed, because the kids had all piled into her tent, a big giggling mess, and said they wanted to sleep with the Queen so they could brag to everyone at the castle.

She’d not had the heart to say no to them, like she hardly ever does.

With their return to Storm’s End, the kids scatter, the little ones to play just outside the castle walls, the older one’s to their rooms to drop their packs before getting back to their work in the castle.

Arya immediately seeks out Gendry. He’s with Davos, the two of them with broad smiles on their faces and discussing something with exuberance. But as soon as Gendry catches sight of her, his conversation with Davos breaks and he strides over to her.

“Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad about leaving,” Gendry says into her neck, “but it’s been one night and I thought I was going to _die._ I don’t know how I could possibly go _six moons_ without you.”

Arya laughs into his shoulder, hitching her legs around his waist as he lifts her up.

“I might be back before then,” she says, leaning back to look into his face. She catches sight of Davos leaving, and she gives him a wide smile before he departs, then looks back to Gendry. “I missed you, too.”

“Oh, did you now?” he teases, pinching her arse. “I’ve already heard talk from the kids that they got to sleep in your tent with you. Replaced me so quickly, then?”

“How did they even get to you so fast?” she asks, sighing with exaggerated exasperation.

He shrugs, jostling her in his grip. “I guess you’ll just have to admit that they like me more than they like you.”

She raises a brow at him.

“Yeah, okay, they don’t,” Gendry admits.

She gifts his honesty with a fierce kiss, and he soon has her back pressed into the wall as his lips drop to her throat.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Arya questions around a gasp, heading falling back against the stone.

Gendry rears back from her, and Arya groans.

“Hey, don’t _stop –_ “ she grunts, grabbing his collar to drag him back to her.

“No, wait, wait,” he laughs. “I do actually have to tell you something.”

“Well get on with it,” she says, trying to urge him to kiss her again.

“A white raven came from the Citadel yesterday afternoon.”

Arya blinks in surprise, pausing her efforts to guide his lips back to her skin, and can’t help the laugh of delight that bursts from her.

“Back to Winter is Coming then, eh?”

 

KINGDOM OF DORNE

Being Queen has suited Arianne more than she thought it would, even if her father had left her as his heir.

She’s not managed to lose her paranoia yet, Ellaria’s coup having instilled fear deep inside her, but appointing Quentyn as the Commander of her Queensguard has eased it somewhat.

This far south, winter hasn’t hit hard enough for any snow to stick, and Dorne has always been mostly self-sufficient. The pressures of being Queen haven’t quite been the same as for all her northern counterparts.

So any mistakes she’s made from her fear haven’t had too many repercussions yet, but Arianne can feel her luck running out.

She needs something to release her tension, but forgoing that – because there’s only one real way to release the amount of tension she has, and she’s found herself with very little time to find a fantastic and discreet whore, or even a maid who’ll keep her mouth shut – Arianne just needs a stroke of good luck.

She needs a change of pace, something to lighten her load, but she’s not quite sure what that’s to look like yet.

Quentyn enters, carrying a scroll between his fingers.

He flicks it at her, and she catches it easily.

“From the Citadel,” Quentyn explains, planting his hands on the table, his smirk softening into a smile. Arianne isn’t sure when she last saw her brother smile. “Spring has come.”

Oh. _Oh._

She can feel the tension leek from her shoulders immediately.

“Thank the _gods.”_

THE LANDS BEYOND THE WALL

The snow crunches underfoot as Meera makes her way back to Bran, rabbit slung over her shoulder.

Snow has started to drift gently from the sky, which would usually be no bother while hunting, but she can smell a shift in the weather and knows a blizzard is on its way.

Spot lopes silently beside her, disappearing every now and again, then returning with blood on his muzzle. Meera doesn’t mind his disappearances; she knows the way back to the weirwood as well as she knows the halls of Greywater Watch.

When she arrives at the weirwood grove, Bran’s eyes are rolled back.

They’ve been camped in their clearing for three days now, but with this blizzard coming in she knows they need to make their way to the nearby Wilding settlement, where she and Bran have a rudimentary but functioning cabin nestled amongst other houses in the Free Folk village.

Spot curls up at Bran’s feet as Meera lays the rabbit she’s caught in the snow, then quietly goes about packing up their bedrolls and tent. When she’s finished, when everything can either be carried on her back on slung over Bran’s chair, she turns to see him watching her quietly.

“There’s a blizzard coming,” Meera explains. “We’ll come back in a week or so. I need to get some more supplies anyway.”

Bran gives her a gentle smile. “This storm will be harsh,” he tells her. “We’ll go to the settlement for a week, I think, and then it might be time to go home.”

“Has the princess been born?” Meera asks curiously, because Bran has not yet requested to go back south of the Wall since they arrived almost a year ago, and Meera can think of little else that would encourage him to make the hard trek so soon.

“She has,” Bran replies, “but you should visit your father. He misses you.”

“I miss him, too,” Meera says softly, thinking of her gentle father and how lonely he must be now. “But we agreed we would wait until winter fini –“

Meera cuts herself off and narrows her eyes as Bran’s smile widens.

The she laughs, delight and surprise mixed together. “ _Oh,”_ she whispers. “Winter has finished, then?”

“It has,” Bran agrees, tiling his head up to the sky and watching as the snow drifts down in soft arcs. “Spring is here.”

 

KINGDOM OF THE NORTH

When Sansa had told him she was pregnant, Jon had wept.

It may have seemed like an odd thing from a seasoned man hardened by war, but while Jon had dared to hope for children between he and Sansa, he’d known better than to expect.

Jon has learnt the hard way that such blessings are not things the gods grant lightly. He’d been terrified through all of Sansa’s pregnancy, overbearing and protective, but now his daughter has been born, Jon finally feels like he can breathe again.

With a new person to worry about, of course, a beautiful little daughter to be overbearing and protective over (though Sansa has cautioned him against it) but breathing again nevertheless.

Jon knocks on the door to their solar, hoping Sansa’s handmaidens will let him in. He’d seen them both only this morning, but he misses his girls, and he wants a private moment with them both before he and Sansa present their new daughter to the North.

Thankfully he’s allowed inside, Sansa and their babe ready for the ceremony. Dawn and Jenny wind around his feet as he enters, and gently he nudges them away from his feet and back to Ghost, who looks at Jon with careful eyes.

Jon almost rolls his eyes at his wolf. Truly, he’s acting ridiculous; Ghost is _his_ wolf, and Lyarra is _his_ daughter and Sansa is _his_ wife. Ghost is almost more protective of Sansa and Lyarra than Jon himself is, and is almost wary of Jon as well. Jon hopes Ghost will grow out of it, but he suspects not.

The breath is stolen from his lungs as he catches sight of Sansa and Lyarra.

His eyes are drawn to Lyarra first, his daughter’s presence still so new and exciting even six weeks after being born.

She’s adorned in a gorgeous white dress with grey stitching and embroidery, direwolves almost running around the hem of her dress. Lyarra had been born with a shock of thick, dark hair, and it’s decorated now with a cute little white bow. Lyarra is asleep, as she usually is – during the day, at least – so he can’t catch sight of her bright blue eyes.

But he need only look up to her mother to see them.

Sansa had never been more beautiful to him than when she was carrying his child, but this is certainly a close second. She’s dressed to match their daughter – as Jon is, as well, his grey on white uniform so strange to him he’d actually done a double take when he’d caught sight of himself in the looking glass – wearing a beautiful white dress with grey direwolves, her hair half pinned up with a large white bow and the other half cascading down her back.

Jon isn’t sure he’s _ever_ seen Sansa wear white, not even on their wedding day, but they’d both decided to wear their House colours of grey on white today weeks ago.

“You look exquisite,” he greets, pressing his knuckles under her chin to lift her mouth into a sweet kiss. “And Lyarra looks absolutely divine.”

“She truly does,” Sansa agrees, gazing down at their daughter.

For as much as Jon _adores_ Lyarra, as much as his heart swells and fills with a love so fierce it makes his body ache, Sansa is even more taken with her. Likely something about bearing Lyarra herself, but Jon won’t pretend to understand the connection between mother and daughter.

He just knows that he’s never felt so full of love in his life.

“It’s almost time,” Jon says, looking down to Lyarra himself. “Are you both ready?”

“Aye, we’re ready,” Sansa says.

She leans in to kiss him again, and Jon’s heart flutters in his chest.

Oh how lucky he is to love and be loved by her.

Jon places his hand on the small of her back to lead her from their solar and to the main entrance of the Great Hall. His mind is immediately thrown back to their coronation, the celebration that day very similar to what is to proceed today.

Sam waits for him outside the doors, smiling widely as she catches sight of them.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in white,” Sam says, and Jon isn’t sure which of them he’s talking to, but he’d be correct anyway.

“It doesn’t suit my dour personality,” Jon replies, and Sansa chuckles beside him. “Nor Sansa’s, apparently.”

“You offend me, my King,” Sansa says, though grinning widely so he knows she’s not truly offended, “you would call my personality _dour?”_

“Well,” he acquiesces, “not comparative to mine, it’s true, but I certainly remember a time when you were hailed as being as icy as our Kingdom.”

“Hmm,” she hums, eyes falling back to their daughter, “though time and love have softened even our hardest edges, don’t you think?”

Jon more than thinks, he _knows._ He’d been a headstrong and solemn boy growing up, and had been turned in to a hard and unrelenting man by hardship and war, but he knows that those things have fallen away to reveal a doting and gentle husband and father.

Strong and decisive when he must be, but he knows that what people whisper about him are no longer his achievements with a sword or the death he’d been resurrected from. He is no longer the battle hardened hero, but a soft and caring man. No, people don’t talk about his younger years, or Sansa’s for that matter. They instead praise the kindness that House Stark shows to each person that graces their halls.

Jon grips Sansa’s waist and steals a kiss from her, interrupted by Sam’s pointed cough.

“All I said was that you’ve never worn white,” Sam says, but he’s smiling slightly as well. “I genuinely don’t know how you two manage to make every conversation so sweet.”

Jon just shrugs, while Sansa struggles to hide her smile.

“Well if we’ve shared enough compliments,” Sam says, raising a brow at them. He’s lost most of his nervous ramblings over the years, Wolkan having instilled in Sam a confidence that he would have been lacking had he had his training at the Citadel instead of by Wolkan’s side. “It’s about time I get you both in there. Wolkan’s gifted me this responsibility and I won’t make him regret it.”

Jon nods seriously, though he finds Sam’s earnest desire to impress Wolkan both amusing and endearing.

Jon and Sansa position themselves behind Sam, and again Jon lets his hand drop to guide her by the small of her back.

Sam pushes the doors the Great Hall open, and the crowd falls silent.

“The King and Queen in the North present their daughter, the heir to the North, Princess Lyarra Stark!”

Their people cheer and applaud as they pass through, and Jon can’t help but wonder if it will wake Lyarra. She stirs in Sansa’s arms, but doesn’t open her eyes. They make their way to the dais at the head of the room and settle beside each other, waiting to receive the Lords.

Lord Cley Cerwyn and his wife Sybelle approach first, Sybelle in the early stages of a second pregnancy. The Cerwyn’s bow and curtsey respectively, and murmur their blessings and well wishes to both the new Princess of the North as well as their King and Queen.

Jon and Sansa thank them kindly, and then wait as each of their Houses proceed up the dais to do the same.

About half way through the ceremony, Jon catches sight of Wolkan approaching, and excuses himself from Sansa and the Hornwoods to meet the man. He would likely have waved Wolkan away and told the man to spare his news for later in the day, but the old maester looks extremely determined to speak.

“A white raven from the Citadel, Your Grace,” Wolkan whispers as soon as Jon meets him. Jon’s heart seizes. “Winter is over.”

Jon slaps his hand on Wolkan’s shoulder, a delighted laugh spilling from his lips.

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan. And enjoy the festivities, would you?”

Jon goes back to Sansa’s side, who is eyeing his wide grin curiously while waiting for their next blessing.

“What did Wolkan say?” she murmurs.

Jon just squeezes her waist, then turns to the raucous crowd.

“May I have everyone’s attention!” Jon shouts over the noise. The people quiet down and look up to him expectantly. “Maester Wolkan has just shared with me that he’s received a white raven from the Citadel! We have survived another winter!”

Somehow the crowd cheers louder than when they’d first entered, and Jon can’t help but join in the celebration, laughing and clapping as well.

“Spring is here?” Sansa asks from beside him, eyes wide in wonder.

In her arms, little Lyarra finally blinks her eyes open, pink mouth widening into a perfect yawn.

If tears well in his eyes, then Sansa covers it by swiping her thumb over his cheek.

“Aye,” he confirms, leaning down to press a kiss to Lyarra’s forehead. “Spring is here.”


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well no point holding on to this! 
> 
> god i have so much i want to say, most which boils down to a massive thank you. thanks so much to everyone who gave me advice, who listened to me complain, who let me brainstorm with them. thanks to everyone who read this consistently, and those who are just reading it now. that's to everyone that kudosed, or commented, but the biggest thank you goes to those of you that read and commented every time i updated. i could never have written so much so quickly without all of your support. 
> 
> this has been such a labour of love, and i hope that it has been as satisfying and cleansing as i wanted to be. this fic is where i worked out all my feelings over s7&8, and i hope that it has given you even a little bit of the peace it's given me. 
> 
> pls join me on tumblr @ladyalice101 if you want! 
> 
> ps enjoy the line i blatantly stole from the hunger games lmao 
> 
> i'll see you all in another fic <3

Sansa

Sansa wakes to the feeling of Jon pressing light kisses to her inner thighs.

She shifts on their bed, sighing with delight as Jon lifts his head from between her legs.

“Morning,” he greets, a roguish grin curling up his mouth. “Happy Nameday, my love.”

A smile on her lips, Sansa reaches over her belly to curl her fingers in his hair and direct his mouth to her wet cunt. He chuckles against her, as pleased with her enthusiasm as he always is, but he teases her no further and instead sets his mouth to her nub and proceeds to bring her to peak under his worshipful tongue and fingers while she gasps and sighs his name. Then he sets her on her elbows and knees and fucks into her so hard she sobs her climax into her pillow.

She hasn’t coupled with him in any capacity in almost a fortnight now. They’ve both been busy trying to move their schedules so they could have today free, and one has been coming to bed so late the other is already asleep. She’s missed his touch sorely, and his rough thrusts are exactly what she needed.

Afterwards, when she’s a boneless, sated mess, she stretches out on the bed while Jon cleans her thighs and caresses her burgeoning stomach and then finally nuzzles into her side. This is the first time in years that they both have their day free of duties, and they intend to make the most of it. After they fall back to sleep, of course.

They’re woken again not long later by the sound of their daughters entering their solar, the girls’ governess trying to get them to sit and wait for their parents before they break their fast.

Jon rises from their bed first and pulls on his breeches and shirt, telling her he’ll send her handmaiden in and keep the girls occupied while she dresses in peace.

He slips out the door, while Jenny slips in. Sansa sits up, and she hears their three daughters shout “Papa!” in delight as they catch sight of him and the door clicks shut.

Lyarra is six now, with perfect manners that would impress Sansa’s childhood septa, but those manners only extend so far as when she’s around others. With her governess, or Jon and Sansa themselves, her enthusiasm is difficult to curb and she shows none of the politeness that marks her presence outside of the chambers.

Their second daughter, Serena, Sansa likens to Arya: with a free spirit and a restlessness that Sansa thinks won’t disappear as she gets older. At four, Serena has the same dark hair as Lyarra and Jon, but unlike Lyarra, she’d inherited Jon’s grey eyes. Despite Serena’s energy and carelessness, so unlike her mother, Serena is the one that Sansa most often finds clinging to her skirts or asking for a cuddle.

The youngest of their daughters, Arrana, is the only one so far who has Sansa’s red hair and blue eyes, though her hair is curly like Jon’s. With Arrana’s second nameday coming up in only two moon’s time, her little personality is only just starting to burst out of her – and by burst, Sansa means gently flower. Arrana is the gentlest, most even tempered of their daughters, broody like her father but not sullen like he’d been as a child. Their similar temperament has meant that Sansa often finds Arrana either toddling after her father or in his arms, mimicking the serious set of his eyes and mouth. Sansa often jokes that Arrana will have frown lines before she herself does.

It makes sense, of course, that their children have inherited only the Stark or Tully look. The Stark gene is present in both Sansa and Jon, and the Tully colouring was strong enough to pass on to Sansa, Robb and Rickon. It’s been enough to gift them with one daughter with that same colouring.

The Targaryen look, however, was not strong. Sansa has no history of it in her bloodline, and the chance of Jon passing such striking looks on through his genes alone was slim. And yet, each time she’s announced a pregnancy, he has worried himself sick over the possibility of the Targaryen line being preserved, even if only in looks.

He would not love the child any less, Sansa knows. But he would feel immense guilt over bringing back a rightfully extinct line, of condemning the child to knowing looks and frightened whispers. For that reason alone, Sansa too prays that any child of theirs is blessed with black or red hair.

But she’s never been truly worried, not like Jon. He may have accepted his parentage years ago, may claim Eddard as his father, but there will always be a little piece of Jon that carries a deep sense of displacement. The feeling that he doesn’t truly belong. Sansa has spent every year since she met him at Castle Black trying to convince him that it isn’t true, that he’s as much of a Stark as the rest of them, but she supposes that sometimes there is no growing out of the fears that the formative years conceive.

Jenny whines and buts her head against Sansa’s thigh, begging for a pat. Sansa obliges, scratches behind her ears, and then Sansa’s handmaiden enters quietly.

“Happy Nameday, Your Grace,” Ashara greets, smiling warming.

Jenny leaves her side to jump onto the lounge in the corner, and Ashara takes the opportunity to lift off Sansa’s nightdress. Sansa slides on her shift, and Ashara helps her into a nice, light blue dress.

“What are you doing with your day off, Your Grace?” Ashara asks, swiftly and deftly doing up her dress.

“We’re going out into the Wolfswood,” Sansa answers. “There is a clearing near the castle that we went to when I was younger, for my brother Robb’s tenth nameday. We’re taking the children, and my sister and her husband are coming as well.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a beautiful day, Your Grace,” Ashara says.

Sansa leaves her to stripping the bed sheets, and opens the door into her solar. Jenny sneaks through Sansa’s legs, and the creaking door attracts the attention of her family.

“Mama!” the children shout, slipping off their chairs to rush over to her.

Lyarra and Serena close their arms around each of her legs, and Arrana toddles over and lifts her arms up. Sansa leans down to lift Arrana, a hand on her lower back as she stands.

She’s only a few moons in to her fourth pregnancy, only just starting to show, but while she’s still young, her body has endured enough over the years that even lifting Arrana twinges her joints.

“Happy Nameday Mama!” Serena and Lyarra shout from her legs. Arrana presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek, smiling widely.

“Thank you, my beautiful girls,” Sansa says, running her spare hand over Serena’s hair.

“Come on girls,” Jon calls, sitting at the table set with food and plates. “Be gentle, alright? Remember that mama has a baby inside her and that you can’t be so rough with her for a while.”

Lyarra knows well enough by now, and releases Sansa’s leg to sit next to Jon, and Serena follows at Lyarra’s urging, sitting next to her sister.

Sansa deposits Arrana next to Jon, the little one reaching out curiously to touch the embroidered sleeve of Jon’s tunic, rubbing it between her fingers as she looks out over the spread of food.

Sansa sits between Arrana and Serena, and she and Jon plate up the fruit, eggs and bread for their daughters. Their meal is an easy yet loud affair, as it usually is, Serena and Lyarra chattering about what they’d done that morning and what they’re going to do that day. Arrana copies her father, holding her spoon like he does and putting it in her mouth when he does.

When they finish their meal, Lyarra clambers over to sit in Sansa’s lap, hand gently running over her bump as conversation goes on. Eventually, though, the girls’ governess returns and takes them for their morning lessons.

Jon and Sansa have the morning alone together, a rare occurrence. They settle into the longue, the open window giving a nice summer breeze through the solar. Back against his chest, Sansa resists the urge to read over ledgers and stores and instead focuses on a book for the first time in years. Jon takes her lead, reading a book himself, though she can tell when his attention wanes because his caresses against her stomach become more meaningful, more pointed, actual designs instead of mindless circles.

“Do you think it will be another girl?” Jon asks eventually, abandoning the pretense of reading and placing his book down so he can cradle her belly with both hands.

Sansa puts her own down, her attention not as caught on it as she thought it would be. “I’m not sure,” she says thoughtfully. “I think it will be a boy, but it’s too early to tell.”

Jon’s hands slow against her stomach, then resume.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, knowing that he’s trying to hide something from her. “Do you not want a boy?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he rushes to say. He hesitates for a few moments, and Sansa waits patiently for him to tell her what he’s thinking. He sighs, then says quietly, “Well it’s just . . . I know that we agreed we wouldn’t name any of the children after our family but I . . . I always dreamed of a son named Robb.”

Sansa purses her lips.

She’d always dreamed of the same thing, truthfully, but when she’d been pregnant with Lyarra, she and Jon had the exhausting and emotional conversation in which they’d discussed whether they’d name a potential daughter after Lyanna or not. Jon had said he’d like to have done so, but Sansa had quietly admitted that if they named a daughter after his mother, she’d wanted to name one after hers, who Sansa had adored and still missed so terribly. Doing such a thing Jon, to name his daughter after the woman with whom he’d had such strained relations, seemed particularly cruel.

But Sansa couldn’t help her desire, and while it had caused a strain between she and Jon for several days, they’d eventually come to the difficult yet prudent decision to not name a daughter after neither of their mothers, and then gone a step further and decided that they wouldn’t name a child after any of their deceased family.

Names are powerful things, Sansa has learnt, and it had felt like the right choice to not attach their children to the names of people who had died before their time in gruesome deaths.

(Though neither had had any issue with giving a gentle remembrance of Lyanna by naming their first daughter Lyarra).

“I . . .” But Sansa doesn’t know what to say.

Jon presses a kiss to her shoulder. “We’ve got six moons to think about it,” he says against her shoulder.

Sansa turns her head to encourage a sweet kiss from him, but before he can drag her skirts up and dip his fingers between her folds – which isn’t an altogether _bad_ thing, because she still feels sore and sensitive from this morning, but, on the other hand, bearing a child has had her extremely desirous for his attentions when she carried both Lyarra and Arrana, and this time is no different – there’s a knock on their door.

Sansa stands to answer it, and Jon hooks his arm over the back of the lounge to see who it is.

Arya stands before her, Gendry by her side.

“Morning,” Arya greets with a sly grin. “We didn’t interrupt anything, did we?”

Lomas winds his way past Arya’s legs to join Jenny under the table. Sansa’s not seen Ghost or Dawn in a few days, but she’s not really worried. She’s sure they’ll return when they want to.

“If you did, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to know,” Jon calls over.

“You’re certainly correct,” Arya agrees easily. “Anyway, when are we leaving today?”

Sansa opens the door wider, and Arya and Gendry enter, and take a seat opposite the lounge Jon is on.

“Just before the midday meal,” Sansa says. “Which reminds me, I need to go and choose some food to take . . .”

Sansa leaves the three of them in the solar and makes her way to the kitchens. Wynfred greets her enthusiastically, and tells Sansa that their first shipment of lemons from Dorne arrived just two days ago. The lemon cakes she’s baked are already packed in the basket, and from there Sansa chooses a variety of meats and breads and fruits, which Wynfred promises to have wrapped and in the wheelhouse by the time they leave.

Outside the kitchens, Sansa gets caught by the head of the washrooms, who informs Sansa that the soap supply is getting low and that more needs to be ordered; Lord Mazin, who is in Winterfell to petition for a shipment of grain, stops her in the hall to try and press her in to agreeing, even though she’d told him yesterday that they would continue the discussion tomorrow; and then Wolkan corners her to tell her that he’d seen four people with coughs just yesterday and that she needs to avoid going to Wintertown for a few weeks to make sure she doesn’t get sick herself.

By the time she escapes from them all, enough time has passed that Jon has sought her out.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes wide as he catches sight of her slowly making her way back to their chambers.

“It’s like they all don’t understand what a day off is,” she mutters as Jon reaches her.

“Well it’s not like you’ve had one since Arrana was born,” he says, a vague tint of amusement to his voice.

“Exactly,” she replies, “they should all know I sorely need it.”

They hear a pair of footsteps from around the corner and down the hall, and Sansa groans.

“Here’s someone else come to tell me something that couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow.”

Sansa knows she shouldn’t be so rude about it - she is their Queen after all - but she truly hasn’t taken a day off since Aranna was born and she’s been looking forward to this since Jon first suggested it a moon’s turn ago.

Jon looks down the corridor, then takes her hand and drags her down the hall and into an empty room. Jon quietly closes the door behind them, while Sansa pauses just inside the room.

She’s not been in here since before she went south to free Jon and orchestrate the Separation of Kingdoms. The War Room remains much the same as it was when it was occupied day in and day out during the Wars, clean and dust free and as well kept as the rest of Winterfell, even if it goes mostly unused.

Sansa brushes her fingers over the edge of the table, the map of Westeros spread out. Sansa knows Jon comes in here occasionally, a Kingdom unable to just ignore it’s bordering Kingdoms, no matter the Peace Accord that has let Westeros see no border conflicts since its inception. He comes with his small council – a meeting that Sansa usually skips – to discuss what the borders look like, what other Kingdom’s armies are looking like, how their own lands are faring.

Pieces are set out across the map, with most Kingdoms’ pieces in their capitals. The North has a small contingent along the coastline closest to the Iron Islands, because despite Yara’s best effort, every now and again a branch of her people discard their new peaceful regime and come onto the continent for raids. The Northerner’s quash the fighting well enough, and the criminals will usually be sent back to Yara to be tried.

Sansa can’t really see that they’ll be able to move their forces from the coast any time soon, but she still hopes.

Sansa doesn’t at all miss the complexity of politics and war gone past. The game of thrones is something she wishes to never be part of again, and Sansa will do absolutely everything in her power to make sure her children will never be either.

Jon sidles up behind her, fingers brushing over her thickening waist.

“Do you remember the day you stood right over there and challenged Daenerys? You tricked her into admitting that she’d burnt Westeros’ grain?”

“Of course I do,” Sansa says, leaning back into him, eyes sweeping over the space she’d stood when she and said _Are you here to help the people you want to rule? Or because you want to endear Jon to you?_ “It was also the day you agreed to marry her.”

His mouth curves into a smile against her shoulder. “Aye, and the day I confessed I loved you and guided you to rut against my leg fully clothed, but neither of those are quite the point I was getting at.”

An idea sparks in Sansa’s mind, blooming quickly and bringing a coy smile to her lips. She wipes it from her face, hiding that she’s got a plan.

“I was _actually_ going to say that I was so furious with you for putting yourself in her path of anger and I –“

“Furious with me?” she murmurs, trying to hide the smirk in her voice. She hasn’t even had to do anything and he’s just given her the opportunity to lead into exactly what she wanted anyway. Her cunt throbs just at the thought of him bending her over the table. “So furious you might want to punish me?”

Jon stills behind her, fist tightening in her skirts.

“You know how much I hate when you go against my orders in front of our council,” he says slowly, testing what she might want to hear. Sansa bites her lip, excited that he’s going to play along. She finds it adorable, however, that he can’t even remember to say _my_ council instead of _our_ council. “If you continue to disobey me, I will have to punish you.”

Sansa braces her hands against the table then grinds her arse into his groin.

“If _you_ continue to make decisions without me and keep secrets from me and betroth yourself to other women, then I’ll have no choice but to disobey you.”

Jon’s hand smooth’s up her spine from her hips to between her shoulder blades and then presses down, guiding her to bend further over and brace her elbows on the tabletop.

“I wish I could have bent you over like this that day,” Jon mutters, flicking her skirts up and baring her smallclothes.

“Shown everyone you are mine and I am yours,” Sansa agrees, pillowing her head against her forearms as Jon pulls her smallclothes from her. “They all thought we were siblings then.”

“Then I would have fucked you and called you sister while I did it.”

Sansa stifles her giggle into her arm as Jon rubs his hand over her bottom.

“What?” he demands, and she relishes in the change of tone. “You don’t think I could?”

“No, I don’t,” she says, amusement lining her voice.

His hand comes down swiftly against her skin. Sansa gasps at the sting of his slap, then immediately rubs her thighs together for some relief. Jon kicks at one of her feet, holding her hip as he does so, forcing her stance apart so she can create no friction for herself.

“No, Jon, please, my love, please, I can’t wait, I need something, please, _please_ fuck me.”

He brings his hand down again; her breath hitches in her throat and then she keens when he slides two fingers over her wet cunt.

She bucks back into him, trying to get him to slide his fingers inside her, but instead he removes his touch to slap her again. He’s not hitting her too hard, though she already knows that there’s an extent to how rough he’ll be when she’s pregnant, but it’s hard enough that her skin is now stinging and likely bright red.

“Stop moving, Sansa,” Jon instructs. “Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

“Yes, please, Jon, _please,_ I need you to.”

“Then do as I say, Sansa.”

She whines into her arm, trying to still her rocking hips. Her cunt feels so empty and she desperately needs some relief.

“I can’t, Jon, please, I need you to touch me.”

“Yes you _can,_ Sansa, I know you can. I know you can do exactly what I need you to, you’re so good for me.”

His praise makes her whine again, trying once again to stop trying to seek her own respite. She aches for him, for some friction, for some movement, but per his instruction she stays still.

Jon rewards her with the sound of his breeches pulling loose, and then she feels the familiar length of him slide through her slick folds. A moan rips from her throat as the blunt end of his cock rubs her nub.

When she rocks back against him this time, he encourages her with his hands and words, and Sansa begs him to slip inside her. He does so without preamble, and the two of them groan at the sensation. Jon proceeds to set a brutal and punishing pace, and after she’s peaked once he flips her over and sets her on her back, hitching her ankles over his shoulder and continuing to drive into her, pushing them both into climax.

Afterwards, Jon slumps against her, his sweaty forehead nuzzling into her shoulder as he sighs tiredly.

“I was going to get us to rut against the table fully clothed, like we did that day,” Sansa murmurs, reaching up to push his damp hair from his skin, “but that was much better.”

Jon huffs a laugh, then pushes up from her to do his breeches up again.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand to pull her from the table. “We’ll go back to our rooms and get some oil on your skin before the girls finish their tutoring.”

 

The sun is warm against Sansa’s face as she lays back against the rug.

She can hear the girls giggling with delight, and when Sansa turns her head she can see Jon sitting in the grass, their daughters walking around the meadow to collect daises and then coming back and climbing over him to wind them into his hair.

Arya is laying beside her, and Gendry on the other side of her, the three of them dozing off in the afternoon sun with bellies full of cheese and bread and cakes and fruit.

Gendry sits up, and both Sansa and Arya turn to him when he sighs.

“I want kids,” he announces, looking over to Jon and the girls.

Arya sighs, propping herself up on her elbow. “I know that dummy, why do you think we have so much sex?”

Sansa hides her snort by turning away from them both, closing her eyes again.

“I was just _saying_ ,” Gendry says with exasperation, but even Sansa can tell he’s not truly annoyed.

“We have _a lot_ of kids though,” Arya says. “And I’m just saying, but none of our critters behave as badly as these three. I mean look at them running about, and Jon’s just letting them put flowers in his hair.”

Sansa eyes pop open again, and Arya is smiling teasingly down at her.

“Oh, please,” Sansa teases back, “you have what? Twenty, thirty kids in your care now? How could you possible keep an eye on them all?”

“I set them to work,” Arya responds matter of factly.

“Arrana is one!” Sansa retorts. “She can hardly talk!”

“Useless,” Arya announces. As if she feels bad for even pretending to think so, though, she calls her youngest niece over for a cuddle.

Arrana rushes over so fast she falls to her knees and gets grass all over her dress, but she just pushes herself back up and then jumps into Arya’s waiting arms. Arya brushes the grass from Arrana’s knees.

Jealous of the attention their younger sister is receiving from their often absent aunt, Serena and Lyarra abandon decorating Jon’s hair to rush over themselves.

Gendry directs them both over to him while Jon stands and comes back to her. Jon settles behind her, then lifts her head and sits it on his lap so he can brush his fingers through her hair, the flowers staying firmly perched in his own.

Sansa drifts off into a light sleep under his soft attentions, but is awoken shortly after by the sound of Serena and Lyarra starting to argue. Sansa mumbles for them to stop as she wakes up, but Jon brushes his knuckles over her cheek and tells Lyarra to come over to him.

“I want to come over!” Serena wails when Lyarra quickly abandons their fight.

“Hey Serena, do you want me to show you the new dagger I made aunt Arya?” Gendry asks, stealing Serena’s attention immediately.

Sansa opens one eye to see Lyarra settle by her side.

“Can I have my horsie papa?” Lyarra asks.

Jon reaches away from Sansa for a moment, jostling her head, likely getting the bag with Lyarra’s toy in it. He soon settles back, and then suddenly Sansa feels four little legs on her belly, the wooden horse toy that Jon had had commissioned for Lyarra’s nameday this year.

“Hello baby sister!” Lyarra greets happily, rocking the little toy against Sansa’s stomach.

Eyes still closed and Jon’s hand still running through her hair, Sansa smiles.

“It could be a baby brother, you know,” Sansa murmurs.

Lyarra pauses, likely having thought that her mother was asleep. “But I don’t have any brothers,” Lyarra says finally.

“Well, no, baby, but this new sibling could be a boy.”

Lyarra resumes walking the horses along her belly, then whispers, “Mama says you could be a boy but I don’t believe her.”

Jon muffles his chuckle above her.

“Anyway, baby sister, or brother I _guess,_ I want to show you my horsie!”

The horse falls over suddenly, one of it’s ears poking into her stomach as it slides off. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but Sansa still winces from the surprise of it.

“Remember to be gentle, baby,” Jon instructs softly. “Like you were when mama was growing Serena and Arrana.”

“Sorry, mama,” Lyarra says quietly. “Can I keep playing on your tummy?”

“Maybe you should –“ Jon starts dubiously.

“It’s okay, little one,” Sansa interrupts, reaching up to circle her fingers around Jon’s wrist. Lyarra picks her game back up easily, perhaps a little rough, but that’s all right.

Sansa has been part of worse games.


End file.
